Game of Princes: Queens and Hounds
by Morninglight
Summary: Sequel to The Runaway Wife and The Taken Heirs. Left in Denerim to prepare for the Landsmeet as her husband Alistair goes to fight darkspawn, Mara, with the support of Teagan, Zevran and Wynne, will be forced to contend with Anora, Nate Howe, a Crow Master... and a face from her mentor's past with plans of her own. Massively AU work inspired by Game of Thrones and the Borgias.
1. Chapter 1

Note: Here's the first chapter for _The Game of Princes: Queens and Hounds,_ the Denerim-centric sequel to _The Taken Heirs. _(There's going to be a Warden/Orzammar-centric one called _Kings and Griffins_ which will be written simultaneously. BioWare owns _Dragon Age_ and all associated properties; UbiSoft owns _Assassin's Creed_, from which much of the inspiration for Rennio d'Antiva and the Crows' fighting style comes; D.J. Pablo owns _W.A.R._, the techno-classic song which is the theme for this book. (Seriously, look up Assassin's Creed W.A.R. on YouTube; it's awesome). Thanks to Draygonne61, galadriella and of course the devoted KnightOfHolyLight for sticking with me through my eternal writing. If I've missed any reviewers, I'm so sorry!

…

**Chapter 1**

The Pearl, Denerim, 29th Cassus 9:30 (Morning)

"Hello, Zevran. There are so many Crows in here at the moment Sanga's swearing she's going to change the name to 'The Rookery'."

"Ah, my dearest Isabela! What brings the Queen of the Eastern Seas to this Maker-forsaken place?"

"You better not be referring to the brothel in such a manner, elf, or Sanga will have you thrown out!"

Zevran allowed himself a thin smile as he raised his right hand to show the bouncer the rings on it. He'd never seen a Nevarran go pale so very quickly as the thug stammered an apology. The Grandmaster ignored him as he returned his attention to the lovely pirate who was probably the closest thing he had to a regular lover. Not that he'd tell the Rivaini that; she'd set sail from Denerim so fast it would suck out the water from the harbour.

"I was referring to Ferelden as a whole; I am tempted to have my favourite people kidnapped from here and taken to Antiva to discover what _true_ civilisation is like. Once they are there, they'll never want to return home."

"Such a pity so many of them are busy fighting a Blight or each other," Isabela said with mock sorrow.

"I assure you, Isabela, none of _my_ favourite people are fighting each other."

"I hope you aren't going to drag me into it. I had to put up with three Crow Masters and their senior Journeymen on my ship. Before that, I had to put up with Rennio."

"My apologies for that." Zevran nearly started as Mara's husky voice issued from the slim grey-cloaked figure he'd simply assumed was one of the elven whores coming into work. The Runaway Wife pushed her hood back, revealing her long, unbound, white-gold hair and overlarge blue eyes emphasised by that woad-blue tattoo. "He was in a bad mood because of my actions at the beginning of a Blight."

"Never apologise for actions taken to control your own destiny," Isabela told the girl firmly. "And don't let men control you, my dear."

"That is in part why I am here, Captain Isabela. I have a duel scheduled for about Cloudreach and I need to hone my dagger skills. There is none better in Thedas when it comes to either daggers or duelling."

"You know, most proper Antivan women would hire the Crows or poison her rival herself, you know," Zevran quipped.

"Sofia della Ferrana always did despair of making a proper Antivan woman of me," Mara countered with a smile.

Isabela and Zevran both chuckled as the pirate gestured to the princess to take a seat at her table. "If you wish to learn what I have to teach, I wish to learn more about you," the Rivaini woman said with something approaching formality. "Do you play Wicked Grace?"

"Not since I left Antiva," the girl replied with mild regret as she sat down.

"Well, my dear, shall we play?"

And so began a card game which would go down in myth and legend. Some people said that the Queen of the Eastern Seas trounced the Laurel Queen or that it was vice versa; one popular song had it that both women got heartily drunk and played to a draw; one particular piece of erotic fiction claimed that the loser had to pay an intimate forfeit to the winner and that the ladies won a game each…

But at the core of the story lay the truth that a pirate and a princess played a game of cards in a brothel and at the end of it, the blue-eyed girl learned several tricks with a dagger and received quite a few bits of practical advice from Isabela.

Those who watched almost pitied Queen Anora. _Almost._ Because any woman stupid enough to anger the foster daughter of an Antivan Crow Grandmaster was obviously tired of living.

When it was done, Mara accepted a brief kiss on the lips from Isabela, much to the loud approval of almost every person inclined to liking females in the brothel's common room – and Sanga threatening to charge them for watching the show. Zevran amused himself by imagining Alistair pummelling every single Crow and their friends with his shield when he found out even as he approved – _silently._

Then he escorted the jubilant Mara home, curious as to what her reasons in venturing out alone were.

…

Arl of Redcliffe's Estate, 29th Cassus (Mid-Afternoon)

"…I don't know what to say about this, Mara. I… trust you had good reasons for going to the Pearl unescorted?"

"_Si._ I have received some training as a Rivaini duellist – enough to supplement my knife skills if I practice enough – and have sown discord amongst Nathanial and Anora's allies." The girl poured herself a cup of warm spiced wine as Teagan eyed her doubtfully. He had to admit that he had trouble following Mara's mind half the time and was rather forced, more than he'd like, to trust in Alistair's judgment.

"And made a powerful ally. Had Mara acted ashamed of herself or disgusted while in Isabela's company, we'd have been thrown out of the Pearl on our ears," Zevran told him. "There is no captain more daring – or discreet in private, non-sexual matters – than Isabela."

"Two of the reasons make sense, but how have you 'sown discord' amongst our enemies?" Teagan wanted a straight answer from the Antivan-raised Mara.

"Because despite all protestations to the contrary, Nathanial feels he has a right to me," Mara replied, sipping her wine gingerly. Alistair was planning the march to Whitebridge and Redcliffe to gather troops with Alfstanna and Rory Gilmore, who'd be joining both as commander of Highever's troops and Bann of Hunter Fell in his own right as his father had fallen in a werewolf attack from the Brecilian Forest.

"And men who are obsessed like Nate will do horrible things to those he perceives as rivals for Mara's affections," Zevran elaborated to a mildly confused Teagan. "At least one of those three Crow Masters will have been hired by Anora; all three cheered."

"Oh. Now I feel like an idiot," Teagan admitted. "I… am going to assume Alistair knows?"

"Knows what?" the Prince asked as he wandered into the Arl's study, clad in light padded leathers.

"I went to the Pearl, met Isabela, learned how to duel with her and kissed her full on the mouth – much to the approval of all therein," Mara explained.

"All?" Alistair asked, looking at Zevran pointedly.

"I did so – privately and silently," the elven Grandmaster replied with a cocky grin. "But there was much cheering to be had when the ladies kissed."

"You're lucky I a) like you and b) Mara's got more taste," Alistair retorted with an easy grin. "Speaking of the Pearl, did you pick up that bounty?"

Mara grinned and tossed the Prince a pouch of coins. "Isabela wanted details of our wedding night for her friend-fiction."

"What'd you tell her?"

"That you were athletic, imaginative and quick to learn," Mara said cheerfully. "_She_ extended an invitation to help educate you more. _I _extended an invitation to have a dagger shoved through her gut."

Alistair and Zevran roared with laughter as Teagan shook his head bemusedly. He was used to mid-level diplomacy and domestic intrigue, not the subtleties and depths of what Mara was dealing with.

"I don't want anyone else. You've more than enough experience for the both of us – and what I don't know, Zev's only too happy to tell me," the Bastard Prince finally said, wiping tears from his eyes. "Even if I don't _want_ to know!"

Even Teagan had to chuckle at that, though he was preoccupied with trying to access his records in the Palace. As a former Hound, Nate knew some of the codes – but thankfully not all of them. Yet again he berated himself for missing the Arl of Amaranthine's mental instability; he'd missed the trees because he was too busy trying to see the forest.

"Your Highness, do you have any last minute commands?" he asked, trying not to dwell on his failures. Teagan needed to be focused so that Mara had his full support.

"Undermine Howe and Anora, get the Alienage open, and keep Mara alive," the Prince promptly replied. Teagan felt a surge of bittersweet joy that the awkward child he remembered locked in a cage had grown to become a man that even Maric would have been proud of. If only he'd been here to see it.

"What are the parameters you wish us to work within, Alistairio?" Zev asked.

"Try to play fair; no hurting kids or non-combatants; if something… _questionable_… needs to be done, run it by Mara and Teagan first," Alistair commanded. "No assassinations unless it's absolutely last resort and even then they'd damned well better deserve it."

"As you will," Teagan replied, bowing his head. They would be limited compared to Anora and Howe, but Maker willing, they'd be able to counter everything thrown at them. The three Crow Masters (which no doubt included the 'local' Ignacio) were wild cards; even Zevran, who'd sworn hearth-oath to Alistair, would likely have to put his order above Ferelden if it came to the crunch.

Senior Enchanter Wynne had been chosen to remain in Denerim whilst the younger, fitter Morrigan travelled with the Grey Wardens; the older mage had been less than impressed until Alistair pointed out that Mara was still weak from her birth and the ensuing tragedies… and if she fell pregnant again, she'd be more at risk of complications or even miscarriage. Teagan also knew that Mara had explicitly given instructions to the healer that if the choice came to her or the baby's survival… It would have to be the baby's. Wynne had protested, but Mara had been as iron on the matter. For all her skill, for all her intelligence, she knew the true purpose for which a noblewoman existed.

It was almost enough to make Teagan weep. No doubt such necessity had driven Anora to extremes; what would it do to Mara, already inclined towards pragmatism and even amorality at times?

He knew that Alistair was counting on him to keep Mara 'good'. Maker willing, he could fulfil that duty, at least.

…

_Greetings and salutations, Most Radiant Sun,_

_The situation in Ferelden is more volatile than even we had anticipated. Prince Alistair and Dowager Queen Anora are openly antagonistic towards each other with the royal bastard's wife challenging Loghain's daughter to a duel before the Landsmeet! With what I know of the girl's training (_fille de_ Leliana, _petite-fille de_ Marjolaine in the bardic lineage as well as having the rudiments of Crow training from her foster father Rennio d'Antiva), the fashion sense of the Fereldan Court will increase quite dramatically come Cloudreach._

_ Speaking of Crows, I can report to you the demise of the Grandmaster Catina Seforzina at the hands of the Free Master Zevran Arainai and the girl Mara Theirin (nee Howe, nee Cousland) and the arrival of two Masters from Antiva. One of them is actively working with Anora, one is likely to ally himself with Arainai, and dear old Ignacio will simply focus on staying alive…_

_ …On the subject of Masters, Rennio d'Antiva is travelling with the Grey Wardens Daveth and Ser Jory to collect those ancient treaties. I would advise that like the warring factions in Ferelden, we allow them to pass unhindered – even _Jader_ would not be improved with the introduction of darkspawn._

_ With the impending civil war in Ferelden, I would suggest lending indirect, covert aid to Alistair Theirin. The man is said to be intelligent and competent – traits sorely lacking since Maric's death! I know the Duc Prosper's plan was for you to beguile Cailan in marriage but quite frankly Most Radiant Sun, Alistair would be better served marrying one of your duller, more biddable, reasonably beautiful relatives – Esme, perhaps, or Aimee._

_ We will not see the reclamation and civilisation of Ferelden in our lifetimes, but with the seeds we are sowing, our grandchildren should have the strength and stubbornness of Fereldans with the grace and beauty of Orlesians. We need the fresh influx of blood anyway and since the Nevarrans are _so very_ difficult…_

_ I will continue with the elimination of Mara Theirin once she's bred again. The irony of using a Valentina gambit on an Antivan (if only by adoption) is quite deliciously exquisite. Maker willing, Rennio will live just long enough to appreciate my plans._

_ I humbly submit this report to you in the hopes that you remember my poor efforts in serving you so far from the warmth and light of your Most Radiant Sun._

_ Yours most fervently forever,_

_ Marjolaine_


	2. Chapter 2

Note: Thanks for the favourites and reviews!

…

**Chapter 2**

Royal District, Denerim, 30th Cassus 9:30 (Morning)

It was once said that Aldenon, the sorcerer-adviser of Calenhad, had enchanted the Stone of Kings to cry out in approbation of the rightful King of Ferelden. From Calenhad to Brandel the Feeble, father of Arland the Cruel, the Theirins bled upon the Stone to be weighed and judged as potential monarchs. Arland had disdained the custom and his son had died at Orlesian hands, the line of rightful succession broken despite Brandel the Defeated, Moira the Rebel Queen, Maric the Saviour and Cailan (the Idiot) following in direct descent. Now Alistair (the Bastard) clasped hands with Loghain Mac Tir before the Stone to confirm the truce until Cloudreach. They clasped each other's forearms with grips that had to hurt, gauntleted in dragonbone and silverite as they were, but neither flinched. Nate Howe supposed it had something to do with a warrior's lack of intelligence.

He'd learned new depths of mental and emotional endurance in watching Mara embrace that bastard and give him a tender kiss; even semi-Tranquil as she was, the girl was smart enough to play to the crowd. Much to his frustration, the trio of Antivan Crow Masters who'd alighted upon their shores, not to mention the 'local' Ignacio, had all refused to take a contract on the Prince until Cloudreach. It seemed the assassins were more interested in stability during a winter of combating the darkspawn.

At least one had decided to align himself with Anora's faction. Roberto della Ferrana came from one of the oldest families in Antiva, his house playing Cousland to the Valisti's Theirins, and had been dispatched at Rennio's order while the Black Griffin travelled with that cursed marsh man and the moronic Ser Jory. He was a laconic man, fully conscious of his worth and status in the world, with a knack for putting Anora in her place. Nate rather liked him for a Crow.

The second was Geraldo d'Rialto, the former Master of Zevran Arainai. Overdressed, over-scented and just over the top, Nate knew that the ridiculous garb and fleshy dark visage concealed a razor-sharp mind and taste for cruelty. Watching him and Alistair's elf play with each other would be amusing.

The third was a royal bastard: Claudio d'Antiva. Soberly dressed in black velvet but for the iridescent flashes of gold, scarlet and purple silk shown in the goring of his doublet, the black-haired young man with his white streak was utterly enigmatic even to Roberto, who'd been fostered with him (or so the Master claimed). He mostly spoke to Ignacio and watched everything with a keen dark eye. Nate needed to get more information on him and quickly.

The ridiculous playacting for the masses was finally concluded as Alistair and Loghain mounted their horses (the Bastard on a chestnut gelding, the general on a grey stallion) and led their honour guards in opposite directions. Nate wondered how anyone could _not_ see the half-elf was unworthy based on the fact half of his honour guard were knife-ears.

Wasn't a lot he could do about it until it was confirmed Mara was pregnant with a Theirin heir. He _could_, however, arrange for the blue-eyed girl to see their children. It would be good for her and the twins.

Taliesen, Anora's pet Hound, popped up by his side. "Don't stare at the girl too long; Anora will note it," he advised softly. "And that would be awkward at the moment."

"Did she tell you to say that?" Nate asked, tearing his eyes from Mara's slim, pale figure regretfully. He hoped her ill health was just a ruse to get Anora's confidence up before the duel.

"Hardly."

"So why say it?"

"Because I like to be on the winning side. Our gracious Dowager Queen's going to get the point several times from Mara and I'd like my survival to continue past that moment."

Nate allowed himself a smirk. "Why not give your allegiance to me now?"

"Anora's got something I hold dear. Something I'd prefer neither Crow nor anyone else to know about. Something I want back."

"What is it? Maybe I can get it back-"

"I doubt it. However, if I help you now, I trust you'll let me go my own way when this is done?"

Nate decided to be moderately honest with the Queen's Hound. "I'll think about it. Keep me apprised of whatever idiocies Anora concocts and at the very least I'll keep the Hounds off your back."

"Unless they answer to Teagan, the bastard. He needs to die and we need those codes."

"Pull that off… and you'll be my righthand man. Deal?"

Taliesen nodded. "Deal." They didn't shake hands. They didn't need to.

Nate smiled at Anora, feeling decidedly chipper. All was going as it should.

…

Redcliffe Estate, Denerim, 30th Cassus (Noon)

"_Il mio piccolo freddo gli occhi!"_

The voice was older and deeper with a richer timbre, but Mara would know it anywhere. She rose from her seat, tossed the book she'd been reading onto the settee, and practically ran to give Claudio d'Antiva d'Case Valisti e Ferrana a hug as a bemused Teagan, Eleanor and Wynne looked on. Her foster brother had grown into a lithe man with wavy black hair, streaked with white, and the subdued taste in fashion the intelligent members of Antiva's royal family affected.

He returned the hug with a broad grin splitting his goateed face. "Little sister, you have grown into a beautiful woman. When I meet your current husband, I shall have to commend him on his intelligence and good taste."

"When I meet your future wife, big brother, I shall offer her my condolences and receiving the poor end of the bargain," Mara countered cheekily, feeling truly happy for the first time in months. Her Antivan family had never judged her for being what she was; they'd simply tried to make a place in the world where she'd thrive. If only she'd stayed in Antiva for a few years longer…

Claudio smirked. "There is no woman I could inflict such horrible torture upon."

Mara giggled and turned to face her allies. "This is Claudio d'Antiva d'-"

"I am Claudio d'Antiva, one of several royal bastards who was fostered in the della Ferrana household with Mara," the Prince interrupted, giving Mara the sideways glance which told her to keep his true identity a secret. "I am, as is a respectable career choice for such lads in Antiva, an Antivan Crow."

"Master rank?" Zevran asked, brazenly displaying the ring he'd received from Catina… and the one he'd taken from her corpse.

"But of course, Grandmaster Arainai. I, like you, wish to remain independent for the nonce – but for the sake of my sister here, I shall gladly work with you," Claudio responded.

Mara wasn't surprised to discover he'd become a Crow, just as she wasn't surprised to see the ring of a Grandmaster Banker on his left hand. Many noble Crows cross-guilded to keep the intricate web that was Antivan society strong. Had she remained in Antiva, she would have likely been a Crow herself… and married to Claudio or one of his brothers.

"Hmm… just enough polite arrogance to be respectful of my rank but to remind me of yours," Zevran replied with an amused smirk. "You and I shall be great friends, Master Claudio."

"Well… I assume you're here to help Mara then?" Eleanor asked with a subtly hurt expression. Mara had never truly displayed such emotion around the Couslands… But then, even though she loved them, she couldn't forget the fact she'd been essentially dumped onto Rennio because they didn't know what to do with her.

"I will be frank. My only concern is Mara. She is a d'Antiva woman and we protect our own," Claudio replied calmly. "If things with the Blight get too bad, I will simply take her back home."

Cu wandered over, Barkspawn having gone with Alistair, and sniffed at Claudio curiously before barking approvingly. The prince smiled and patted the dog on his head.

"I would almost suspect you and Prince Alistair of having spoken to each other, for he gave _me_ similar orders," Zevran said approvingly.

Mara sighed. She wasn't _that_ helpless… and she was Bann of Whitebridge. "I will not abandon my people or my bannorn," she said firmly. "I have a duty to them as liege lady."

"If you are pregnant with Alistair's child, your duty to keep the Theirin bloodline alive takes precedence," Teagan corrected bluntly.

"What? You're pregnant _already_? It is too soon after the twins-" Claudio began heatedly, only to be chopped off by Mara's wave.

"I don't have the luxury of rest. We are forced to rely on the bastards who left Cailan and all but three of the Wardens to die at Ostagar. We have until Cloudreach to prepare ourselves to deal with the traitors."

"Those fools left the Grey Wardens to die? How shall they kill the archdemon then – and keep it dead?" Claudio bypassed annoyance and anger and leapt straight into the Valisti fury. It was a fact well-known in Antiva – just through simple observation of history – that the Grey Warden who killed the archdemon perished alongside the monster.

"Rennio, a scout named Daveth and a knight named Jory survived and are now collecting the treaties," Teagan replied diplomatically, visibly startled by the swiftness of Claudio's rage. If only he knew how quick to kindle the Valisti were…

"I swear, if that man tries to play the Game during a Blight, kinsman or not he'd better die fighting the darkspawn," Claudio vowed fiercely.

"Calm down," Mara murmured, touching his arm. "You'll give yourself a heart attack like your grandfather."

The Valisti scion took a deep breath, forcing himself into something resembling calm. "My apologies. The rank stupidity of these people is astonishing. Even to me."

"Will you have any troubles being openly aligned with us?" Wynne asked, speaking for the first time.

"Nothing I cannot handle," Claudio assured her.

"Can we trust you as much as we trust Zevran?" Eleanor asked.

"My sole concern is Mara, _Dona_ Cousland. I shall trust as she trusts."

Mara sighed in relief. Finally, something was going right, and though most of her faction would assume he'd come here of his own volition or by command of Mara's foster family in Antiva, it was… otherwise.

"I assume you'll be staying at the Gnawed Noble?"

"Of course, little sister."

"Be careful."

"Would you like to tell me how to cut a throat while we're at it?"

"Only if you're going to teach me how to sing a _canto di morte_," she retorted, smiling.

"Do I look stupid? If your friends can spare you, we must talk. Sofia della Ferrana has commanded me to deliver certain things to you, and some of them must be done in private."

"In my office with the door open? My friend Morrigan set up this marvellous ward which muffles sounds…"

She led Claudio to the room in question before returning briefly to assure a concerned-looking trio. "In Antiva, the bonds of fosterage are meant to be deeper than those of blood," she explained softly. "It is not that I cannot trust you… It is that there are things that can only be shared within a family. And forgive me, Mother, but Claudio would not see you as _famiglia_ – not in the Antivan sense."

"Can we trust him?" Eleanor repeated with that hurt expression. Her mother would never understand.

"You can trust him with my life," she replied honestly, knowing that the answer would not assure them. "So long as our goals benefit me, he will aid us to the best of his ability."

"And if not?" Teagan asked intently.

Mara allowed herself a crooked grin. "Then I will find myself – and the twins – on a boat to Antiva – regardless of my wishes in the matter."

Then she entered the office to try and convince Claudio that her ultimate plan was a necessary one…


	3. Chapter 3

Note: In order to get a true understanding of everything going on, you must read _Queens and Hounds_ and _Kings and Griffins _concurrently as each will reference the other constantly. I've divided the narrative into two separate works to keep my own timeline straight. _Andraste fiammeggiante della femminilità!_ means "Andraste's flaming womanhood!"

…

**Chapter 3**

Redcliffe Estate, Denerim, 3rd Verimensis 9:31 (Early Morning)

"_Andraste fiammeggiante della femminilità!"_

If Sofia della Ferrana had been around to hear Mara use the second-most vile curse in the Antivan language, the noble matriarch would have dragged her to the bathhouse and washed her mouth out with lye soap no matter how old she was. As it was, her birth mother Eleanor gave her a sharp glance but said nothing because everyone was more concerned about the two scraggly, scared-eyed children who had almost literally fallen from the sky after transforming from eagles. The girl looked about twelve, the boy ten – and both wore the robes of Circle apprentices. Thankfully, the duo had been about four feet from the grassy part of the private ladies' garden and so had only collected bruises and scrapes.

_"Scelgo i miei bambini,"_ the young woman soothed as she rose to her feet, hurrying over to help them up. They knew exactly where they were going and since Daveth's first stop would be the Circle Tower…

The elven boy clung to her like a burr, sobbing, as the girl tried to be brave. "Are you Mara?" she asked.

_"Si,"_ she assured the child. The look of relief on her face was transcendent.

"Daveth sent us with a letter," the girl replied. "Bad things happened and a bunch of demons came. The templars killed most of us kids in case we became abombinations. Me and Torry only lived 'cause we hid. Daveth said you could stop the templars finding us."

Mara silently thanked the Maker and His Bride that only she, Eleanor and Shianni were present in the women's garden as her heart froze at the thought of Oren being one of those children… "Daveth would not ask such a thing lightly of me… So long as you do no magic here, I can protect you as best I can. What is your name?"

"Daisy."

"Daisy, we have Senior Enchanter Wynne here." Mara patted Torry soothingly on the back until his sobs turned into hiccups. "Will that be alright?"

Daisy looked doubtful but Torry seemed a bit less scared. "Wynne's nice! She won't let no templars kill us, Daisy."

"Then go to her after you give me the letter Daveth sent and ask her to come here, then speak to an elven man with tattoos on his face and a voice that sounds like mine. His name is Zevran and he can find you a bath and food." She hoped the Crow would forgive her for putting the children in his hands, but the assassin had a soft spot for the younglings, having brought two elven kids caught outside of the Alienage to the household as runners. And he no doubt knew how to combine magebane and a mild sedative to best effect to help keep them calm…

Daisy nodded and pulled out a grimy sheet of paper from her robe. One good thing about the high walls is that people would assume the birds had just fallen in or were some kind of exotic pet… Then the children left and Mara sighed, wondering what sort of firebomb Daveth had dropped into her lap.

She read the letter aloud for Eleanor and Shianni's sake as Wynne came rushing in, still-lovely face dark as thunder. Both her mother and the elven woman pretending to be her maid blanched in horror as Daveth explained what had happened; before Wynne could say anything, Mara handed the elder mage the letter… and buried her face in her hands and wept. That could have been Oren…

"Those… those…" Wynne seemed lost for words as she struggled to articulate the horror she'd surely feel at what had happened to her home. As alien as it was to Morrigan, the healer had felt like coming to Kinloch Hold was coming home. No doubt her childhood had something to do with it…

_"Il mio dolore, _Wynne," Mara told the elder mage sincerely.

"I… Thank you, child," Wynne responded, tears glittering in her pale eyes. "I…"

"This will change things forever," Eleanor said, her voice shockingly calm though the shimmer in her eyes told Mara she was imagining Oren dead like most of the children. "What will you do, Mara?"

"We must speak to the others. I am… minded… to do as Daveth asks. But such a big decision… It must be discussed with the others."

"Agreed," Wynne said. "Oh, I should have been there, I could have saved the children!"

"And you would have been the first to be cut down by the templars when they went on their killing spree," Shianni pointed out. "It's like when shem guards come to stop a riot. They'll do as they please until the threat's over."

"That… is true." Wynne took a deep, shuddering breath. "Call Zevran, Teagan and Carver, Mara. It's high time we discussed the future."

…

Dragon's Peak, 3rd Verimensis (Late Afternoon)

Bann Sighard of Dragon's Peak was an older but still-hearty warrior, a veteran of Maric's war against the Orlesians, and currently neutral in the succession crisis. His line, despite its 'low' standing, was also one of the oldest in Ferelden and should have been amongst the first considered for the Arling of Denerim as several dozen ancestors had married into the Uriens family. Loghain was obviously known and respected by him, but Alistair had never really spoken to the man despite them both being at Ostagar and practically neighbours. Come to think of it, Alistair had never really gotten the chance to be an Arl; how could he convince Sighard to support him as King when he really had no experience?

But the Bann was cordial enough as he invited Alistair, Loghain and their officers up the manor for a meal and conference. His son Oswyn was in Denerim on 'family business', or so Sighard claimed, and Alistair hoped it wouldn't affect Mara somehow.

He had to keep on reminding himself that trusting Mara to handle the political side of things was no different to letting Yarin or Olin watch his back in a street brawl. It wasn't that he didn't trust his wife, it was that she was adept in a sphere that he couldn't quite comprehend and probably never would. Diplomacy and politics like Teagan had explained them on the ride between Highever and Denerim made sense; but the subtleties and nuances of the Game of Princes – or the downright skulduggery of the 'murder game' – were completely alien to Alistair. At heart, he was still the same forthright, honest Chantry Boy turned lawman.

After dinner (an excellent venison stew served with boiled potatoes and mashed carrots), Sighard had a servant pour the assembled guests – Loghain, Ser Cauthrien and Ser Landry on Anora's side, Alistair, Alfstanna and Ser Gilmore on his – their choice of mead or ale before leaning back in his seat, silver-chased flagon in hand. "I don't suppose there's any way you could settle this by crowning Alistair and making Anora Chancellor?" he asked quietly.

"You mean after _Loghain_ left us to die at Ostagar?" Alfstanna countered sharply.

"Anora is not Loghain… and forgive an old veteran, but from a tactical viewpoint, abandoning Cailan was a harsh but necessary action if the beacon was late in being lit," Sighard answered with a sigh.

"He could have turned around and charged after the beacon was lit," Alistair pointed out flatly. "The Tower of Ishal had been overrun by darkspawn; we went as quickly as we could."

Sighard sighed again. "Loghain… Would you step down from the position of Teyrn of Gwaren and join the Grey Wardens or something if it meant this could be settled peaceably? I will be blunt: Anora has no claim to the throne whilst a Theirin lives… and as per the Agreement of Bluestone Boulder, the Couslands ought to be next in line for the kingship as was agreed between Calenhad and Elethea."

"Fergus Cousland is likely dead," Loghain countered harshly. "Do you _really_ want a girl as damaged as Mara running the kingdom when Anora has been doing it for five years?"

"Given a choice between the girl who fought at Ostagar and the woman who didn't, I'd rather the one who's faced the darkspawn," Sighard replied waspishly. "Whatever the _personal_ faults of Mara Theirin, I'll not doubt her as a leader or ruler; her bannorn adores her after she used her personal dowry to repair any problems and set the militia up in the best armour and weaponry money could buy."

"Then trust in my wife if you won't trust in me," Alistair told the Bann. "Look, I know I'm inexperienced compared to most of the Bannorn. But I've got good advisers and a damned smart woman to call my own."

The Prince took a deep breath and tried to look past the instinctive fury he felt whenever he looked at a lawbreaker and traitor. Maybe Loghain's paranoia was fed by Nate Howe's ambition and Anora's fears. "But this isn't about Mara or even Anora, really. Those two have their own private score which only they can settle. I'll let Loghain go to the Grey Wardens – _if_ Daveth and Jory can forgive him leaving their brethren to die – and keep Ser Cauthrien on. _If_ Anora survives her duel with Mara – and it would take a braver man than I to get in the way of those two – and she can prove she was innocent of whatever bullshit Howe cooked up to get Loghain to leave your King to die, I'll let her become Teyrna of Gwaren and give her a seat on the Privy Council. If not, Ser Cauthrien will take the position as Loghain's second."

As he paused to take a drink and breath, Sighard nodded thoughtfully, Alfstanna's green eyes narrowed shrewdly, and Cauthrien's gaze widened. "You're blaming Nate Howe for most of the mess then?" the Bann of Dragon's Peak asked.

"I'd wager that Rendon laid the foundation and Nate's own fucked-up head built the walls," Alistair replied.

"…What if I was to tell you Cailan was planning to divorce Anora and marry the Empress of Orlais?" Loghain said slowly. "And that he'd discussed with Bann Teagan invoking the Right of Kings with Mara Cousland?"

Alistair's hand clenched into a fist involuntarily at the thought of the girl he'd coaxed back into trusting men again being used in such a callous manner. "As much as I loved my brother, Cailan was sterile and desperate, trying to live up to the example my father set," he finally said. "I don't know if Anora's fertile or not, but her equal desperation to keep her queenship drove her to blatantly persecute Mara."

Loghain's jaw rippled with tension but he grudgingly nodded in agreement. "I… have always sympathised with the Cousland girl," he conceded reluctantly. "And… I'm sure she holds you in affection, Alistair. But don't assume that all of her decision to marry you is based on love."

"I don't." Alistair gave the Teyrn a sharp smile. "And don't assume that I have chosen the only known remaining heir to the house which stands just below the Theirins in the order of succession solely out of love – though I do love her deeply and I know she loves me deep as she can."

Sighard's gaze sharpened. "So… why Mara and why so quickly? Is she expecting again?"

"I… don't know to the second question. She might – and she's ignoring what Antivan women do, using contraceptives for a year or two in between babies, to conceive quickly even though it might endanger her because of the trouble in Ostagar and Highever leaving her physically weak. But the first question…? People are focusing on the actions of a scared, abused girl so much they just forget that she's got an education to rival a Chantry scholar, speaks more languages than all of us at this table put together, and has been trained to rule over large and complex holdings."

"Is it true she's bardic-trained?" Ser Cauthrien suddenly asked.

"Yeah. Her mentor was a half-Fereldan Chantry sister named Leliana, who'd entered service to Andraste to atone for the sins of her past. Damned shame the poor woman – like all the Orlesians and Nevarrans Loghain and Howe could get their hands on – was hung as a spy."

"Hmm… Wouldn't be the first Fereldan bard and I'll doubt she'll be the last," Sighard said musingly. "It explains that extraordinary song she sung at Ostagar for that Dalish Warden."

Ser Landry scowled. "So you're admitting that your wife is a trained assassin and spy, Prince Alistair?"

"And Nathanial Howe _isn't_?" Ser Gilmore retorted.

"Enough!" Alistair thumped the table with his open hand, startling everyone. "This isn't about Mara. She will be Queen-Consort, not Queen in her own right, unless something were to happen to me and the Landsmeet made her that. We have slightly more pressing concerns at the moment… Like the darkspawn. So let's focus on that, shall we, and leave the politicking to those back in Denerim?"

For the first time, Loghain actually gave him a look that mingled regret and respect as he nodded curtly. "Agreed. Sighard, how many men can you muster?"

They turned their minds to the greater menace, even Alistair unable to do much more than spare Mara a fleeting thought and wish that she was safe in Denerim.

…

Denerim, 3rd Verimensis (Night)

Fereldans truly were too stupid to live. Despite knowing there was a threat of assassination and the horrific cold they called winter down here, the silly old cow had left a window open for fresh air and the lord of the house hadn't staggered his patrols irregularly. For one raised in Antiva, this murder would be child's play.

He climbed over the wall, using the vines foolishly allowed to grow across the stone like a ladder, and jumped into the shadows, waiting for a guard in Rainesferre colours to walk past. Some might murder the guard in case he witnessed something, but that was the mark of an amateur. A true assassin killed only the mark and kept collateral casualties to a minimum.

Despite his contempt for the woman he was going to murder, he reminded himself that she had survived decades in this turbulent bloody land and therefore would be dangerous in her own right. Not enough to stop her murder but definitely enough to inconvenience him. And he hated that.

_"Make her bleed. Make her suffer. I want her stripped of everything and everyone she holds dear before the Landsmeet and is left alone, naked and shivering, before she is dispatched to the Maker."_

Feh. Fereldans had no class; showing them how the Game should truly be played would be a salutary lesson. Maybe they'd even grow up and join the rest of Thedas.

It was but the work of a moment to slip along the courtyard and into the servants' entrance. Thrown needles dipped in sleeping poison incapacitated the two elves working in the kitchen, preparing for tomorrow's morning meal. Then he calmly walked along the servants' passage, knowing it was unattended at this time of night, and entered a guest room adjoining the one where his target slept.

…He was disgusted with how easy it was to climb along the ledge and enter his victim's room. She was old enough to need painkillers to sleep at night, so she didn't even stir when he cut her throat neatly from ear to ear. Then he left the sign of his coming over her heart, murmured a prayer for her soul, and slipped out again.

So _Terrore Notturno_ came to Denerim to do what he did best.


	4. Chapter 4

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing, people!

…

**Chapter 4**

Redcliffe Estate, Denerim, 4th Verimensis 9:31 (Morning)

Mara screamed and it was the most desolate sound Claudio d'Antiva had ever heard come from her. The girl had gone to see why her mother was late in coming down to breakfast… and had found Eleanor Cousland dead in her bed with a slit throat. Now everyone was clustered around her, trying to calm her down enough to get her away from her mother's body, but for Claudio: he was too busy cataloguing the miniscule evidence left by the murderer. There was only one clue – this was a classic Crow Master hit – in the room: a blood lotus left on the older woman's chest.

_So, the Night Terror has come to play in Denerim,_ he thought grimly. The killer was the scourge of women in Rialto and Antiva City… and only the Guildmaster knew their identity. But with only three other Masters in Denerim (only a Master could leave a signature), Claudio had a better chance than most of discovering who it was.

Geraldo was the most obvious candidate, Ignacio the most unlikely, and Roberto the most unpalatable… Claudio's dark eyes narrowed as he looked at the elf Alistair called his hearthman. Zevran Arainai was an unknown to the Prince, though the man was no doubt competent enough – and certainly had a lot of _cojones_ to wear a Grandmaster's ring without ratification from the Guildmaster. Mara trusted him far more than she should – but if this Alistairio of hers trusted the man, no doubt she'd automatically do so too.

Claudio cursed the winter storms which had delayed his arrival in Ferelden and missing the Theirin _bastardo._ He wanted to see what measure of man Maric's son was; if the ex-templar was a tenth of his father, he would be a formidable king indeed.

Loghain's actions at Ostagar were reprehensible, equal to Cailan's stupidity; the Grey Wardens had been forced into an untenable situation and then left to die. Now two inexperienced Wardens and a man who'd never seen a darkspawn until his coming to Ferelden were all that stood between Ferelden and disaster.

Finally, displaying that hard will which promised greatness in her own right, Mara calmed down. Tears streaked her lovely tattooed face but her winter-sky eyes were clear and cold with rage. "My mother was chosen deliberately," she said in Antivan with icy precision.

"_Si, hermanita," _Claudio agreed grimly in the same tongue. "Do you still wish to proceed with your plan?"

"I have no choice. There are children being held captive and the author of their imprisonment must be dealt with by my own hand. I also must fulfil a promise to a dead woman. _A mano e con il cuore e la lama ho giurato._"

Claudio sighed. Sofia della Ferrana would have his head on a platter, prince or not, if Mara died needlessly. Their foster mother was a formidable woman and a powerful one in her way; the idiot Couslands should have left Mara with them instead of marrying her to the dogspawn Thomas Howe.

"I obviously can't talk some sense into you. At least if you're going to die doing something stupid, you'll look good doing it," he retorted flatly. Then he repented of his words as her winter-blue gaze became even more stricken.

"One life is nothing in the face of… _this_," she replied, gesturing to the cityscape of Denerim through her mother's window. "How many more people must die because of my stupidity?"

With those words she left the room, leaving several confused people and a frowning Arl Teagan. Claudio set his jaw stubbornly and resolved to contact the one person Mara _might_ listen to. He could not allow a d'Antiva woman to die.

…

Fort Drakon, 4th Verimensis (Mid-Afternoon)

They stretched the poor lad out on a rack to await the pleasure of the new Houndmaster.

Even with the influx of new bastards loyal to Nathanial Howe, most of the City Guard which staffed Fort Drakon were too damned scared of Yarin to do much more than poke her with a stick or give her short rations. Instead they tried to break her by torturing elves and half-elves and the odd decent noble in front of her. She'd almost spoken when poor Soris was stretched out, but the fierce pride in the boy's eyes drove her to keep her silence. If poor Soris, widowed on his wedding day, would not break faith with Ellath'len then neither could she.

It was Oswyn, son of Bann Sighard, that was going to be the recipient of Nathanial's untender actions today. Either Sighard was cowed or the traitors were getting desperate…

Yarin had to admit she was more disturbed by Nathanial's cold, soft-spoken detachment than Rendon's blatant toadying cruelty. The scarier thing was that where the previous Howe had found excuses to justify his actions, Nate needed no excuses because he had _reasons._ And he didn't get off on the pain and torture, which truly scared the fuck out of Yarin more than anything else.

The _seth'lin'len_ heard the familiar scrape of soft-soled leather boots against stone as Nathanial Howe and his current lackey Hank Ceorlic entered the interrogation room. "Arrange for the white roses to be delivered anonymously," the Arl of Amaranthine was instructing the newly promoted sack of shit. "She'll know what they mean."

"Is this some kind of weird Game of Princes thing?" Hank asked, scratching his drink-reddened nose. "I mean, the little who-_lady_ _is_ shacked with that bastard Alistair. And you want to send her flowers and a message to say she can see her kids any time she wants."

Nate gave that cold smile that indicated he'd noted Hank's slip of the tongue. So Fiona's lad, her precious little Ellath'len, was married to the Cousland girl, the one they called the Runaway Wife. Given that the other choices were Anora or Habren Bryland, the blue-eyed chit was probably Alistair's only option. From what Yarin had heard, she seemed more to blunder into disaster rather than actively court it…

"I know what I'm doing," the Arl of Amaranthine retorted as he reached for the crank of the rack. He liked to soften up those he was questioning before actually talking.

Yarin had to give the shem Oswyn ten points for ballsiness, singing a _very_ rude song about the Howes which some bard had spread about shortly after Mara's arrival in Denerim. He even screamed it hoarsely, chanting weakly after his right knee was broken by a coldly furious Nate. It was the most pissed Yarin had ever seen the Arl…

In fact, after the verse about "the Cousland bitch trading the rabid dog for the royal one", Nate forgot to ask questions and just settled on wringing screams out of Oswyn. He succeeded, but the brave bastard didn't spill a drop of whatever information the archer was looking for. Yarin applauded his integrity even as she inwardly smiled at Howe's fury.

When she got out of here, if the shem survived, she'd take him with her.

Finally Howe quit with disgust and walked out of the interrogation chamber with Hank in tow, leaving Oswyn retching weakly on the rack. "Good job, lad," Yarin called out; the Bann of Dragon's Peak's son turned his head slowly towards the half-elf and managed a pained smile.

"Thank you," he whispered.

It was some time after Yarin's only meal of the day, hardtack and dried meat, when a pair of arguing voices reached her ears. One was high and sharp – the chief jailor – and the other soft and Antivan. "You don't have the right to just walk in here and take prisoners!"

"I am the Arlessa of Denerim by marriage to Prince Alistair Theirin," the Antivan voice replied flatly.

"Well, the Queen outranks you-"

"As Dowager Queen, she has no authority," was the retort. "Now, I _will_ take this person, wrongfully incarcerated, from this place and _you _will not trouble me in this."

Whatever faults Mara Theirin might have, bad taste in fashion wasn't one of them, Yarin absently reflected as the brazen little thing strode into the interrogation chamber, those famous oversized eyes widening dramatically upon seeing its inhabitants. _"Respiro di Fabbricante,"_ she breathed. "Oswyn of Dragon's Peak – how come you here?"

"Nate Howe had me dragged in for asking questions about Ostagar on my father's behalf," the tortured man replied weakly. He smiled again. "Have you come for me then?"

Mara's face, usually so still, was full of mingled emotions today as she glanced in Yarin's direction. The half-elf noted that instead of her trademark Highever Blue she wore a subdued gown of black with night-blue trimming; a mourning gown, judging by the black lace ring shawl of finest Antivan wool she wore over her head.

Ellath'len, bless his heart, had sent his wife in with orders to free Yarin… or the girl had come up with the idea herself. Either way, she wasn't entirely hopeless. But in order to be confirmed King, Ellath'len would need Landsmeet votes… and Yarin was _not_ one of those. She'd accepted that the path to _Vhen'alas_ was washed with blood and that hers might be spilt on the way. It was a good reason to die for.

So despite her own yearning for freedom, she said, "Of course she has, idiot."

Mara's eyes widened and she looked to the jailor, who looked sick. "Go from here; I pledge you only one prisoner shall leave with me," she told the woman. "Only I and my healer and my maid will be in here."

"If I leave you alone with the prisoners, Anora will have my head," the jailor whined.

"Tell the Bitch Queen that you were here the entire time; she is stupid enough to believe you," Mara replied scornfully before turning away from the jailor.

Yarin laughed… and knew she'd pay for that laugh. But the jailor obeyed and they were left alone.

"Corporal Yarin, my husband gave the order to free-"

"Don't be stupid, girl. You need Oswyn's dad's vote, not an old elf-blooded lawwoman," Yarin interrupted.

"Yarin, are you insane?" Shianni whispered; it was only until she'd spoken that Yarin recognised her in the elegantly coiffed, silk-clad ladies' maid. "Who gives a fuck about the shem?"

"The shem with the Landsmeet vote is worth more than me," Yarin replied bluntly. "Ellath'len must win at any cost. _Vhen'alas_ must rise."

"…You believe Alistairio is the one who will give the elves their own land," Mara breathed, her eyes wide.

"It isn't belief, but fact, girl," Yarin told her. "The hopes of more than just shems rest on my boy's shoulders."

The half-elf took a deep breath. "It's not an 'elvish homeland' like the Dalish blather on about. It's a land where the King is of the blood of the People, the bridge between elvhen and shem. The days of Arlathan are gone… But 'Our Land' might yet happen."

Mara's eyes closed as she looked at the old white-haired mage accompanying her. _"Have I conceived?"_ she asked simply.

"…Yes," the woman replied slowly, reluctantly.

"Then your duty is clear, Wynne. The child must live. All other things – even my honour, if need be – are as nothing." She looked at Yarin, winter-blue eyes sad. "You are certain of this?"

"The day these morons can break me is the day the Maker comes back," Yarin assured her with more courage than she actually felt.

"I… will see you freed as soon as I can," Mara promised quietly. "If not… The child will bear your name."

"I'll settle for _Vhen'alas_ coming to be," Yarin told her.

"I will see that done then."

And somehow, as Oswyn was healed and led away, Yarin believed her.

…

Denerim, 4th Verimensis (Night)

Crows seduced, deceived and finally murdered their targets.

Bards often did the same thing, but unlike the Antivan Crows, they had a wider variety of ways to remove a person. Sometimes killing wasn't necessary; a good character assassination could permanently destroy someone as neatly as a knife across the throat.

It was a simple matter to slip out of the Redcliffe estate; with the death of her mother and the rescue of Oswyn, everyone assumed that Mara's wish to be left alone was understandable. But with the discovery of the elves' ultimate hope, she knew that even her grief had to be pushed aside for the greater good.

She was selfish. She should have resisted Alistair, she should have stayed with Thom, she shouldn't have taken those papers… All she could do now was arrange things so that Ferelden was united in the face of the Blight and that Alistair could rule long and well afterwards.

_"The first to fight, the last to flee. The first to starve, the last to eat. The first to give, the last to take."_

Mara mentally recited the Cousland Oath, forgotten in these months of turmoil. Eleanor's death had opened her eyes to the true cost of her actions. Nothing could excuse what she had done. One girl's selfishness had cost everyone so very, very much…

Only Alistair's orders and the baby in her belly kept her from turning herself in as a peace offering. Alistair was such a good man; he deserved better than her. The best she could do was give the next royal heir Cousland blood and then die honourably.

Even weaker than she had been only two years ago, it was child's play to break into Hank Ceorlic's house and plant certain things. Her enemies had taken her mother from her, so retribution had to be taken. It was the Antivan way.

She was a poor wife, a poor mother, a poor Bann. But at least she could try and be a good bard and help Alistair gain the throne. When she was gone, Alistair could get a better wife… He'd take care of Moira and Byron and they'd become the best of Howe and Cousland when raised by a good man…

She returned home without incident, knowing that things would only get harder, and finally allowed herself to cry. She had so much to atone for and so little time… Maker willing she'd get the chance.


	5. Chapter 5

Note: Thanks for the reviews. I'm making up a lot of elvish words and probably sucking at it. _Shem'hahren'lin_ means 'quick elder blood', meaning an old, respected human family or ancestry.

…

**Chapter 5**

Royal Palace, Denerim, 5th Verimensis 9:31 (Morning)

Marjolaine stifled a laugh at the mildly sick expression on Bann Ceorlic's face as he attempted to explain to Anora the presence of Orlesian pornographic statuettes arranged lewdly in his parlour just before the Grand Cleric was due to visit. Under the guise of the Antivan lady's maid Jolaine she accompanied Habren Bryland (a dull, stupid little girl whose only saving grace was her craving for Orlesian things) to every Court session. It was such a useful place to gather information… and to assess likely tools and threats to her plans.

If the master bard had to admire one thing about the Fereldans, it was their sheer bone-headed endurance: despite her mother being murdered so viciously the night before last, Mara Theirin was here on the arm of her foster brother Claudio, both of them clad in the sable of mourning with touches of House colour in that subdued Antivan style. The Orlesians, of course, were masters of fashion but the Antivans were a close second; it was a pity the Free Marches lay between both nations before they could be united…

The crowd parted for the woman some were already calling the Laurel Queen despite the Landsmeet not having met yet. That Anora would lose was inevitable; whatever support she'd had as Cailan's wife and a capable administrator was being swiftly eroded by her utter stupidity. Marjolaine looked forward to her being put in the position of needing the Empress' help…

Interestingly enough, Senior Enchanter Wynne (a woman with excellent taste in romantic literature) was conferring with Anora's court healer, gesturing to Mara. Marjolaine dared not leave Habren's side to try and eavesdrop – but she knew news of import when she espied it being shared.

"Can't believe they let that little whore in here," Habren complained. "She took the man I'd marked for my own."

There was no way on Thedas that Habren would be allowed near Alistair Theirin; the Empress had conceded that the bastard was _not_ his brother and thus better suited for Princesses Aimee or Esme: fair of face but thick as a good cassoulet. Habren, on the other hand, was destined for the Duc Prosper, who was looking for a pretty little thing to warm his bed…

Marjolaine idly wondered how much more Mara Theirin could take before she imploded. She lacked the survival instinct necessary to play the Game of Princes and the killer instinct needed to know when to strike. Poor thing; Rennio's misogyny had led her to being a pretty little thing, a housecat instead of a tigress, and that damnable Fereldan code of honour would lead to her death. Leliana had been too soft to save her; Marjolaine wasn't even sure if she was worth playing the Game with.

_Poor little thing. Pretty little thing. You cannot wait to die, can you?_ Marjolaine intended to kill the girl because who knew what Leliana had told her? But she'd intended to play with her like a _chat et souris_ first. The girl, however, didn't look up to it – and it simply wasn't sporting to play the Game with one who had no defence against it. Perhaps a simple poison or knife across the throat once she was bred?

The two mages stopped talking as Mara neared Anora, who had the bare-faced gall to remain seated on the Lesser Mabari Throne; the Dowager Queen's healer approached the dais and bent over to whisper something in Cailan's widow's ear. Nathanial Howe, who was standing at Anora's left, lost some of his perpetual glower and regarded Mara with far more warmth than a betrothed man ought to be showing the wife of his fiancée's rival.

The flash of livid rage which crossed Anora's sea-blue eyes filled Marjolaine with glee. Something big was going to happen. Judging by the determination in her eyes, perhaps the girl had conceived already? It would explain her pallor and weakness… Poor little thing if it were true. She'd have no choice but to carry the child to term – if it survived that long.

Marjolaine felt a stirring of pity and empathy for the girl and decided to let nature take its course if she were pregnant. She looked weak and weary – and if she was acting, it was a better act than even Marjolaine could see through. And there was no one on Thedas who could do that.

She adjusted her crimson silk skirts and prepared to watch another drama unfold. When all fell into place, one day it would be Celene on the dais and all the surviving nobles here delivering her their rightful due.

…

Nate's heart froze as Mara's quiet announcement brought the ambient noise of the crowded Throne Room to a standstill. This was what she'd been working towards, but seeing her so pale and wan worried him. She was still such a young fragile girl, even if she was tougher and smarter than everyone else realised.

He knew that Anora would either try to discredit Mara's fidelity to Alistair (not that she was that stupid) or use her conduct of the past two years to see the babe taken from her like his twins were. Nate wondered if she'd recognise the rambunctious one-year-olds they were now; he'd have to let her meet them soon so they could see their mother for real instead of a portrait.

Eleanor had been right: he should have fessed up to the Couslands and gotten Mara back sooner. Even though he knew why she'd married Alistair, the thought of that half-elven bastard ploughing a woman descended from half the heroes of Fereldan legend pissed the Arl of Amaranthine off. He remembered Oswyn's song and the half-elf Yarin's laughter; come his next trip to Fort Drakon, he was going to remove something recognisable from the Corporal and send it to Alistair in the field.

He'd gone overboard with Oswyn but if the bastard hadn't been guilty, why sing "A Bitch and Two Dogs"? Whoever wrote that song was going to die… _slowly_. Poor Mara was being even more shredded in it.

He tried to catch her eye, to project some his love and worry for her, but she ignored him; the only gaze he met was the Antivan bastard Claudio's. Dark and sharp, the Antivan Crow Master's single glance held only… contempt? Why would he despise Nate?

Maybe Mara's foster brother thought Alistair was a better choice. Maybe royal bastards looked out for each other. Maybe that half-elven piece of crap had asked Claudio to make sure 'his woman' had nothing to do with Nate. The problem was that the Bastard Prince didn't understand that Nate was just loaning Mara to him because a Theirin child was needed for the good of Ferelden. Once the babe was born, Alistair was no longer necessary.

Nate smiled as Anora rose to deal with the news of Mara's pregnancy, jealousy making every line of her body tense. Once that child was born, a lot of people would become unnecessary. He looked forward to being rid of them and marrying Mara like he should have in the beginning.

Soon things would be as they should be. And he couldn't wait.

…

Redcliffe Estate, 5th Verimensis (Night)

"…Are you sure that tonic's good for you?"

Despite having worked for Mara these past few weeks, only now did Shianni feel brave enough in asking her boss if the brown herbal tisane she drank twice a day was a good idea. It wasn't that the Runaway Wife was a bad woman by even Shianni's low opinion of the shems; it was that she was worried that if Ellath'len's wife died, things might get worse for the _elvhen'suledin._

Mara drank down the cup, grimaced, and then set the delicate porcelain vessel aside before answering. And in typical Mara fashion, she didn't give a straight reply, only saying, "It serves its purpose. When it is no longer good for me, I will no longer take it."

Shianni growled with frustration. "I wish we'd saved Yarin!"

"As do I, _il mia amica_." Mara's voice was sad. "She is like… a mother… to Alistairio. But she was right; Oswyn was more important because he is a vote in the Landsmeet."

Shianni muttered something under her breath. "Nate Howe needs to die."

Mara bowed her head in sorrowful acquiescence. "_Si._ But he is still… enamoured of me. He has sent messages and knowledge we can use."

"He's obsessed with you. Maker help us all if he decides that the only way to keep you is kill you."

"He… will wait until the babe is born if it comes to that. And if it does…" Mara shrugged simply. "My actions caused so much pain for him. Some might argue I owe him."

"You don't owe him a damned thing." Shianni had been briefed on the full story by Zevran, who'd calmly admitted to murdering Thom Howe. She _liked_ the assassin… If only Kallian had gotten the chance to meet him… "What he did to you was rape, Mara: rape by deception."

"Had I been made aware of Thom's sterility, I would have willingly lain down with Nate to see the Howe heirs born," Mara replied quietly.

"_But he lied to you._ How can you be so smart in some things but so stupid in others?"

Any other shem noble would have been pissed at the question but Mara simply shook her head sadly. "Because sometimes I think I know better and do silly things which led to trouble for everyone," she said sorrowfully. The girl rested her hand on her belly and Shianni remembered that she was eighteen and had been through quite a lot – some of it even worse than the elf-woman herself.

"You once told me what Vaughn and his friends did to me wasn't my fault, right?"

"And it wasn't-. Oh. I see what you are saying." Mara was a smart one for a shem. It was truly a shame Kallian had never gotten to meet her too.

"So believe me. Start believing in yourself because others do," Shianni chided.

"I… will try," Mara acceded softly, if doubtfully.

"Awesome. Now, what dress do you want me to lay out tomorrow? I know it needs to be black for your mother, but it needs to look queenly. You're meeting Bann Whatshername tomorrow…"

"Alfstanna, who comes with messages from my husband. And she is my kinswoman."

"That's right. She's _shem'hahren'lin_ like you. I should have better manners." Even though the city elves had forgotten a lot when compared to the Dalish, they remembered the old respected families who'd always done right by them. The Waking Sea and Cousland families were two of them, according to Elder Valendrian. It was why Shianni was more polite to Mara than most other shem nobles.

"We need to find the source of that sickness," she said grimly. "My people…"

"I know. That the Tevinter are treating it and not our Circle mages… _worries_ me."

The implications of Mara's statement weren't lost on Shianni. "You think they're being sold into slavery?"

"I would be more surprised if your kin weren't, Shianni. _Mi scusi_, I can do nothing for them at the moment."

Shianni managed to keep most of her anger from her voice. Mara was doing her best as Arlessa of Denerim but Anora and Nate had managed to corrupt the people who should be helping her. "When, then?"

Mara managed a smile. "Do you know that Andraste freed Shartan on the day of Wintersend?"

"…I do now."

"Some things must be done in symmetry to be fully understood. I swear to you that the Alienage will be opened by spring… If we haven't all managed to be killed by Anora's assassins by then."

Shianni smirked at her boss. "If that doesn't happen, I call dibs on Hank Ceorlic."

"If he doesn't manage to hang himself with some help from Nate's men, he is yours."

Shianni grinned. "See, this is why I like working for you."

…

Prince Alistair's Camp by the Drakon River, 6th Verimensis (Before Dawn)

Alistair folded the letter neatly and tucked it back into his shirt, still scenting the Orlesian lavender Mara preferred over the spicier cologne used by her foster brother and the sharp herbal scent of Zevran's favoured soap.

He was to be a father, Maker willing, come the sharp heat of Matrinalis. He cursed the agreement which kept him out of Denerim while his lovely vulnerable wife was left alone to fight a war which might be too hard for her if Claudio's concerns about her health were true. But Mara would be the first to chew him out if he returned.

A sharp curse rang out from Bann Sighard's tent as the man no doubt discovered what Nate had done to his sole heir Oswyn. Alistair smirked grimly as he reflected on both the boy's courage and that of Yarin, refusing rescue to allow a potential Landsmeet vote to escape. Mara had promised she'd do her best to see the Corporal freed soon…

…Maker forgive him, he intended to countermand it. Until that babe was delivered, Mara was the most important non-Warden in Ferelden, and if Alistair fell in battle then he could trust her and Teagan and the people left in Denerim to form a good regency. That was assuming the Landsmeet was stupid enough to _not_ make his wife Queen.

If Alistair died, the gloves would come off. He knew that Zevran in particular was holding back out of respect for the Prince's scruples and the need to hold the higher moral ground. But if he died, then within the day Anora and Nate would join him. He'd leave neither to bedevil his wife.

He _would_ send one order: Mara wasn't to duel Anora. No doubt his blue-eyed lass would be pissed, but he hoped that she'd see sense on this part. He wasn't happy about her planning to fight the bitch, even if he knew why she needed to do it… This pregnancy of hers was a Maker-send in more ways than one.

Alistair wanted to be back in Denerim to take care of Mara but duty came first. He was beginning to understand Cailan's words on the eve of Ostagar about needing to sacrifice people for the greater good. It _hurt_ to leave Yarin where she could be tortured but Mara had to free Oswyn. Maker's breath, it was so damned _unfair_… But then life was never fair, was it?

The tent-flap rustled as Varel Baern, self-appointed captain of his honour guard, stuck his head inside. "Council's waiting for you," he said without preamble. "Some shit's gone down in Denerim."

"Amongst other things, I'm to be a father," Alistair replied as he reached for his sword. With darkspawn possibly attacking at any time, no one went unarmed.

"So, the old blood of the Couslands and Waking Sea mingles with the old blood of Calenhad and the People," Varel mused. "Those shem traitors of yours won't know what'll hit 'em, Ellath'len."

"I hope so," Alistair murmured as he left the tent. "I really do."


	6. Chapter 6

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing, everyone! Time jump of a few days. Yeah, the Valisti/della Ferrana 'hand-talk' is borrowed from the Drasnian secret language in David Eddings' _Belgariad_ universe. Also, the Antivan society described in here is purely head-canon.

…

**Chapter 6**

Redcliffe Estate, Denerim, 9th Verimensis 9:31 (Early Morning)

"Are you _insane_?"

Teagan knew that as both Teyrna and wife to his liege lord, Mara ranked him, but he couldn't resist but articulate his opinion of her quietly stated decision to… well… shake up Denerim so badly that Maric would spin like a potter's wheel in his grave in the strongest possible language.

"Alistairio gave us our orders to free Yarin, get the Tevinters out of the Alienage, rescue the kidnapped heirs, and approved the decision to break the phylacteries. It must be done swiftly… and the Wintersend celebration is perfect for it."

"You mean the Wintersend student celebrations will cover the chaos quite nicely," Teagan retorted acidly.

"I wager the Chantry students will be pleased enough to give us a hand," Zevran mused thoughtfully. "They do so love a collection of pranks."

"Satinalia would be better, but Wintersend will have to do," Mara continued. "This is… _nuit de désordre_ in the bardic ways. Controlled chaos to conceal multiple acts designed to bring an enemy low."

"And it could cause riots," Teagan countered. He could understand trying to achieve everything at once under a cover, but this could only end in bloodshed and tears.

"The students are on the verge of rioting as are the elves trapped outside of the Alienage. Many foreign teachers were hung by Loghain and Nathanial Howe… and the trouble in the Circle meant that several more mage-scholars are dead." Mara's voice was soft but sharp as she looked up at him. "We need to find some kind of outlet for the tension in Denerim or else it will explode."

Shianni, who'd been helping herself to some wine in the corner (she was a poor lady's maid but somehow Mara forgave her this), tilted her head curiously. "We want to stop lots of people getting killed, right?" she asked.

_"Si,"_ Mara replied.

"We need to gather them in one place then. And the best way to do that – and get on their good side – is to throw a big party."

"Of course!" Zevran snapped his fingers. "_La Bella Signora_, you are Antivan… Well, mostly. How is it that the kings keep the common people on their side?"

_"Vino e feste,"_ she murmured. "The della Ferrana provide the wine, the Valistis supply the opportunities to drink it.

Teagan knuckled his eyes wearily. "We don't have the gold to throw a big party, even if it's a good idea. There's two hundred thousand people in Denerim, Mara. How do you propose to get the cash to keep them all entertained?"

Mara rolled her eyes, actually looking a bit livelier since the day of her announcement concerning her pregnancy and Alistair's subsequent order she cancel the duel with Anora. "Arl Teagan, you are a good man, but you think in terms of swords and gold and men. A woman, she understands that half a party's preparation is giving and receiving favours."

"So what, you'll go into political and financial debt just to throw a party?" Teagan couldn't believe it; he thought Mara wiser than this.

"I pledge you. No cash will be borrowed and no political favour granted unless it is to an undecided but decent person," Mara assured him. "Please, Teagan, have faith in me."

If she'd commanded him, he'd've told her to shove it, Princess or not. But because she _asked_ him, he sighed and nodded. "I… will, Princess Mara. I pray it's not misplaced."

"If it is, we will all be dead," Mara observed dryly. "Come… I need a list of all merchants in the city."

…

Denerim Marketplace, 9th Verimensis (Late Morning)

"Managed to sell off that spiced wine yet, Cesar?"

Cesar della Ferrana, more usually known as Master Ignacio's assistant shopkeep, gave _Principessa_ Mara a mildly startled glance as the pretty girl suddenly appeared out of nowhere. These Fereldan morons somehow managed to miss a woman clad in exquisitely woven Rialto velvet of deepest black trimmed with Highever lace and accompanied by an armed elf in their midst. Normally he would have tracked her by the ripple of awareness in the crowd, but she had moved unnoticed and so he showed the proper _comportamento_ and honoured her skill by expressing his surprise.

"No, more's the pity; it will go stale because the people do not feel like partying. Wintersend is normally a good time, but…" He sighed as his fingers seemingly fidgeted randomly in frustration whilst the lady toyed with a lock of white-gold hair, magically stripped of the dull brown colour by Healer Wynne.

"'It is in times of sorrow we must seize the moments of joy to be found'," she replied, eyes shadowed with remembered pain, as she ran her fingers through onyx mourning prayer beads. "Those were the words of my mother Eleanor… and now she is gone, I find myself missing her wisdom."

"It is ever so with our mothers," he agreed formally. "I assume then that you wish to host some kind of party to try and ease our sorrows?"

"Please spread the word that Mara Theirin will be hosting a Wintersend Festival for Denerim in honour of King Cailan and all of those who have perished fighting the darkspawn," she said quietly. "There will be meat and wine."

Cesar bowed his head even as his lips twitched. "So you would see my wine used then. Now that it has value, I must bring up the price."

"Feh, do you take me for a country housewife? You would have thrown it away come Wintersend – minus a few bottles to get yourself truly drunk – and Ignacio would have boxed your ears for it! I do you a favour!"

"You think I will give it away? _Respiro di Fabbricante, Principessa,_ do you think me easy as an Orlesian lady of the Court?"

"If the rumours at the Pearl are true…" Mara dimpled at him, her smile wide even as her eyes were sad. Cesar smiled back at her before he realised it, then shook his head.

"Now you use bardic tricks on this poor humble seller of goods! That is not fair."

"You are as poor a shopkeep as Isabela is a sailor," she retorted, adjusting the line of her mourning shawl.

"So you think flattery will buy you the wine? Hah!" Cesar gestured wildly, grinning even as several other stallkeepers looked over to see what was going on. "I should declare vendetta on you for such insult!"

"I do you a favour by freeing your docks of useless cargo, Cesar. Let it go into the bellies of the cold and sorrowful this Wintersend and earn yourself favour with the Maker."

"The Maker does not approve of excessive drinking," Cesar reminded the girl.

"Unless the other merchants see fit to provide spiced ale and mead, there'll be only enough wine for a mouthful each," she countered tartly. "Besides, did not the Divine Ambrosinia the Second say, 'Wine is the second gift of the Maker to Andraste'?"

"Well, of course, but _she_ was Antivan. These Fereldans, they are much different in their ways."

"You've never been to a Wintersend party in a mead-hall," she responded dryly. "The Antivans celebrate often and frequently because they live in a land of wine and song. But the Fereldans… We celebrate much less, but ours is much more intense, for it comes so rarely. Would you… _could_ you… look into the eyes of a poor sorrowful person and know that you denied the means for them to ease their pain just a little? The Maker made the peoples of Thedas for different purposes and the Antivans exist to express and share the joy of life. Refuse this small favour I ask of you and you deny your very nature as an Antivan."

Cesar threw his hands up in the air. "Bah, I give up, _Principessa._ Take the wine and be off with you!"

Mara bowed her head in graceful gratitude just before Liselle, the Orlesian perfumer who'd managed to escape the noose by being Queen Anora's preffered supplier of soaps, came up and began talking rapidly in Orlesian…

Cesar allowed himself a smirk as he began to write down orders. Anora would never know what hit her.

…

The Royal Palace, Denerim, 9th Verimensis (Early Afternoon)

Roberto della Ferrana idly cracked chestnuts and picked the meat from their shells as Anora accused Mara of trying to buy the city of Denerim with a party. He looked across the Throne Room to Claudio Valisti and gave a subtle shrug to be replied by a swift rolling of the eyes. What a place the Blight and the Game put them in.

People didn't understand the nature of Antivan society. The rest of the nations assumed that _Casa_ Valisti was a figurehead and that the magnates, nobility and Crows truly ruled the country. To a certain extent, they were correct in that the Kings of Antiva (no official Queen since Madrigal for whom the Steel Age was named) were less important than the bloodline itself and that the day-to-day matters were generally decided by _La Raccolta di Case – _The Gathering of Houses. The King's duty was to provide a symbol for the people, to be the deciding vote in untenable situations… and to serve as a gauge of the land's health.

One would think that Ferelden, the youngest of the nations, would remember the ties between King and land… But Roberto figured the Orlesian invasion had removed that knowledge from the nation's folklore. It was how Moira Theirin and her son Maric had managed to survive and eventually overthrow the Orlesians: the land itself aided them, as much as it could. A pity that neither Maric nor Cailan had ever bound themselves to the land… It seemed it wasn't because of unwillingness but lack of knowledge.

At first _Casa _Valisti had wondered if House Mac Tir would provide the next line of kings once it became known that Cailan was sterile and his father's only (known) child. But Anora was barren and Loghain… well… probably damaged from too many blows to the head if Roberto was inclined to be charitable.

And then they became aware of the Couslands: a family older than the Kingdom of Ferelden, born of the old blood and known for generations as good stewards of their lands. The della Ferrana and the Valisti gathered together during the time when Teyrn Bryce Cousland was in Antiva trying to get shipping contracts for Highever several years ago and discussed making an alliance of blood and power with him. A son and daughter he had, children of a mother with good strong old blood in her too, the youth a fine warrior and the girlchild… _different._

Roberto was nine then but he remembered the fury of Claudio's father, mottled-red and pure Valisti, when came about that Fergus Cousland fell for Rennio d'Antiva's younger sister Oriana instead of a woman with Valisti or della Ferrana blood. For all of his wily ways, Rennio never truly considered the needs of the land or its peoples, but simply his only prestige and pride. But 'twas he who claimed the girl Mara, cold-eyed and far too smart for her age, as recompense for allowing his beloved sister to marry the son of a barbarian Teyrn.

And so Sofia della Ferrana appealed to the First Warden to make Rennio too busy for half the year and have the girl fostered with the della Ferrana as _famiglia_. With such bonds Antiva was held together.

They'd lost her sooner than they should but it had been necessary, both for the sake of international politics and to get her away from the ruthless Rennio. Sofia della Ferrana, Roberto's mother, had been livid about not being consulted in Mara's wedding to Thomas Howe… And when Mara's desperate plea for help, written on a scrap of parchment and delivered via pigeon relay, reached the della Ferrana matriarch, she gave Catina Seforzina the go ahead to take action in her name.

'_A woman's scheme is as intricate as Orlesian brocade',_ Roberto thought as Anora's harangue reached its crescendo. Through it all, Mara remained serene, looking pale and fragile. He was worried for his foster sister in carrying a child so soon after all the tragedy she'd endured over the past two and a bit years. But the Blight made it necessary…

"As your offspring has been confirmed as the child of Alistair Theirin," Anora finished, sounding quite bitter about that fact, "I will have to take you into protective custody until the child is born. The Great Lords of State – Gwaren, Redcliffe, Amaranthine, South Reach and West Hills – are all in agreement with this. Do you have anything to say?"

"I bring my own servants and healer, I go into Rowan's Wing, and I get access to my children," Mara promptly replied.

"I-What?" Anora blurted. "Do you think I would-"

"The Princess, as a royal by marriage, is entitled to her own household," Arl Teagan interrupted mildly.

Nathanial Howe, no doubt wanting to look good in Mara's eyes (the idiot), nodded. "It will be done."

"And I, of course, will be allowed to attend the Great Wintersend Festival, which I pray will become a yearly event," Mara added calmly.

"Of course," Nathanial agreed as Anora visibly forced her temper back under control and finally nodded in curt agreement.

The woman was an excellent administrator and low-level player of politics but not up to even the murder game, let alone the intricacies of the Game of Princes. If she'd an ounce of her father's tactical genius and a touch more diplomacy, she'd be suitable for a ruler during the Blight… But well, she didn't.

But Roberto had been assigned by the Gathering of Houses and the Council of Grandmasters to advise Loghain's side of the conflict and so he would obey until they lost.

At least Mara wouldn't be doing that ridiculous duel, he reflected as he cracked another chestnut. Well… not yet. And at least now she'd be in an easy place to fetch if necessity meant they needed to flee Ferelden.

No woman of the d'Antiva and della Ferrana would be left to die. Simple as that. And soon the Fereldans would learn that.


	7. Chapter 7

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing, guys! I'm also toying with how the location of the Sacred Ashes is discovered in this story because I can. :P

…

**Chapter 7**

South Reach, 11th Verimensis 9:31 (Night)

Alistair folded the lavender-scented parchment into a small piece and placed it in the small chest where he kept the rest of Mara's letters. It was a good thing Wynne had cast a spell on the tiny brass-bound oak container so that if anyone other than he opened it, the chest would explode, because his wife was being assiduous in keeping him up to date on the where, what, why and how of her actions. That information could be damaging.

His mouth quirked into a sideways smile despite the real danger Mara was in whilst sharing a building with Anora and Nathanial. Too many people (including himself) had assumed that the Runaway Wife was a victim of circumstances beyond her control, someone who'd gotten into trouble just trying to protect herself. In the beginning, that was probably true. But after Ostagar and Highever, she'd begun to grow into her own and take charge of her own destiny… And after the murder of Eleanor Cousland, a woman who'd welcomed Alistair into the family with open arms and a quiet promise of regicide if he broke her daughter's heart, he told Mara that the gloves were off so long as Ferelden wasn't put at jeopardy.

"This is a thin hope you're pinning Bryce Cousland's recovery on," Bann Sighard of Dragon's Peak, now sworn to Alistair after the torture of Oswyn, said grimly. The Bastard Prince had admitted him into the inner circle after that… He needed the Bann's acumen as he was keeping Alfstanna busy riding messages and coordinating the North. Bless her heart, the Bann of Waking Sea did so gladly, and he privately vowed to see her bannorn raised to arling status when this was all over.

"I know. But we need Cousland," Alistair admitted with a sigh. "Teagan knows how to play mid-level politics and Mara's been trained to handle things on an international scale, but no one on our side has the extensive combat and rulership experience that he does."

Before Sighard could take offence, he added, "An inland bannorn is different to a port teyrnir, Bann Sighard. I wouldn't ask Cousland how to run the flocks of silkwool sheep just as I wouldn't ask you about the best choice of netting for fishermen."

Sighard's lips quirked wryly. "You're a good lad, Theirin. Let's see if that charisma of yours can bring Leonas into the fold, shall we?"

_Charisma? I don't have charisma,_ Alistair thought as he tugged on a reasonably clean leather doublet. Wearing armour in Bryland's house would imply he needed protection from the host, which would cast aspersions on the Arl's honour… It had been Sighard who shared the little bits of Fereldan noble protocol with Alistair, things so small yet profound that most of the Bannorn did them without thinking but would notice their lack in a ruler's behaviour.

It was a short walk from the guest room he'd been given to the dining hall; as a small arling, South Reach was located in an ancient fortress that was older than Calenhad. Like Mara, like Alfstanna, like Sighard, like Teagan, Leonas came from a family that predated Ferelden, a line so old that it was practically bound to the very bones and soil of its arling.

Loghain, Cauthrien and Landry were there… in full armour. Alistair inwardly winced as he realised that no one had ever explained that bit of protocol to the others… and sighed in relief as he realised how lucky he was to have _very_ good teachers. Perhaps things were different in the north as Loghain's family hailed from Oswin, who answered to Highever, and Cauthrien was Amaranthine-bred, and Landry never stepped foot outside of Denerim before Ostagar…

"…We're slogging through the snow and muck in the south, fighting darkspawn, and they're having a party in Denerim!" Loghain snapped as he waved around a parchment. "I thought Mara Cousland was smarter than that."

Arl Wulff (who must have arrived within the past two hours) grunted his agreement as Leonas sighed. "From what I've heard from the north, Denerim's on the verge of exploding. Perhaps the girl's trying to release some of that pressure?"

"If there are _that_ many hotheads in Denerim, they ought to be down here then," Wulff told his fellow Arl. West Hills and South Reach were barely above bannorn in the scheme of things despite being arlings.

"If the Alienage wasn't closed down – _against my direct orders_ – we'd _have_ more manpower," Alistair pointed out grimly. "As Highever and my honour guard have proven, the elves are extraordinary fighters when they have to be."

"We don't need a plague on the loose, Prince Alistair," Leonas said wearily.

"That _plague_ is supposedly being treated by _Tevinter magisters_ and _elves_ are going missing. If it's natural, then I'm the hind-end of a donkey," Varel Baern retorted before Alistair could reply. The self-appointed captain of Alistair's elven honour guard was losing his restraint around shems with authority… Sometimes to awkward effect.

"No one gave you permission to talk, elf," Cauthrien countered.

"I'm a freeman. I don't _need_ permission," Varel said flatly. "I have as many _rights_ as you, _Ser_ Cauthrien."

"That… is something I want to discuss," Leonas said directly to Alistair. "Knowing of your ancestry, lad, I can understand why you want to improve the lot of elves. Maker knows the alienages could use cleaning up. But… was it wise to give them the Three Gifts even before you're King, before the people have had a chance to get used to the idea?"

"The people of Highever approved after they saw the elves lay down their lives to protect everyone huddled in that Chantry," Alistair said flatly. "But even without that sacrifice, the elves are citizens of Ferelden and so therefore deserve the same rights."

Leonas held up a hand placatingly. "I'm not saying it's a _bad_ idea, just that you could have picked your timing better. Like when we're at peace and not dealing with either civil war or a Blight."

Alistair felt a slow burn of anger as Varel's eyes narrowed. His elven honour guard had twice the darkspawn kills of any of Loghain's units excepting Maric's Shield because they now had as much reason to defend Ferelden as any shem freeman. While he understood Leonas' cautious reasoning, he couldn't endorse nor agree with it. "If Andraste had waited upon the right time to overthrow the Imperium, Arl Bryland, then we'd still be kissing magister arse and worshipping the Old Gods. Times of tumult are the _best_ times to enact change because more people will accept it then. I am _not_ going back on my sworn word to give the elves of Ferelden the Three Gifts."

He even managed to keep his voice level, even if it was tight with controlled fury. "I see no reason to be ashamed of my elven blood, Arl Bryland, and actually see much to be _proud_ of. The _elvhen'suledin_ have endured slaughter, oppression and the destruction of their culture for hundreds of years but still the _Vhenadahls_ grow strong. Ferelden _will_ be a place of justice and equality for _everyone_. And if you disagree with _that_, then hie thee to Gwaren and take ship for anywhere else but here, for I'll not tolerate such attitudes in Ferelden."

Leonas' eyes widened briefly before he stared down Alistair. "You are not yet King and might never be, _Bastard Prince. _Who are you to speak to _me_, in _my_ hall, in such a manner?"

Alistair smiled mirthlessly, golden gaze glinting in the firelight. "I am Alistair Ellath'len FitzMaric Theirin. Blood of Calenhad, blood of Arlathan, baseborn though I be. Even the Landsmeet cannot change that, Arl Bryland, though I would abide by any choice they made for ruler."

It took him a few moments to realise he and Leonas had slipped into Alamarri, a language not entirely forgotten in most of Ferelden, particularly on the coast and in the Bannorn. And with that understanding, Alistair knew what he had to do next.

He unfastened his cloak, for South Reach's dining hall was cold even with two fires roaring, to reveal the dagger every guest was expected to wear as a token of a willingness to defend their host. "My blood on the stones, my feet on the earth, my hair in the wind, my heart in the flames. You question me, Bryland: _if you think you can do better than me then claim the right of kingship from me!_"

Then he drew the dagger in one smooth motion, mimicking the throw Zevran had taught him, and watched it _thunk_ point-first in the chair-back above Bryland's head.

Bryland's eyes blazed as he rose to his feet. "I might just do that," he replied as everyone stared at them. "I look at you two and see a pair of squabbling idiots. I will accept your challenge in the old way, Alistair Theirin: if you fall, your life, your lands… and your woman… are mine. Mara's good stock, proven fertility; I need another heir because Habren is unreliable."

Alistair allowed himself a mirthless smile. "Good luck surviving the wedding night if I fall, Bryland. I'm the _nice_ one in our marriage."

"Mara's a smart girl and I won't mistreat her," Leonas countered. "Once she's conceived and borne me a child, I'll let her go wherever she wishes with the Howe twins and your child. That's more than anyone else has given her."

That was true though Alistair refused to admit it. A deep rage kindled in his heart as Varel left the hall to fetch his sword. He wasn't sure if it was entirely from the fact that Bryland had threatened to take his woman from him or the sheer boneheaded stupidity of Ferelden's nobility that fanned the fury…

"Are you two insane?" Loghain demanded. "We are to fight darkspawn, not each other!"

"You left King Cailan – and the rest of us - to die, Loghain," Leonas replied with deadly softness. "Were I King, I'd have your head on a pike already."

"Don't intervene, any of you," Wulff told both Alistair and Loghain's people. "This is a challenge in the old ways… and Alistair needs to prove himself as the true king of Ferelden."

"No one will die if they're both careful," Rory Gilmore agreed. "Sometimes things are still settled like this in Highever."

Soon enough Alistair's sword arrived; he'd spent the time warming up just as Bryland had. The Arl of South Reach smiled in approval before taking a magnificent silverite greatsword from his squire. "My mother was of the Clayne," he said conversationally as he swung the weapon to become comfortable with it. "We practice the battle-rage down here."

Alistair smiled grimly as he recognised an attempt to intimidate him. "I wiped the streets of Denerim with real _dwarven_ berserkers, Arl Bryland. If you hit me, Sergeant Olin Brosca would die of shame after killing me for sucking so much."

"Well said!" Bryland approved. "Now have at thee!"

…

Royal Palace, Denerim, 12th Verimensis (Day)

"You can embroider, weave, sew, battle, sing, dance, play politics… Is there nothing you cannot do, _La Bella Signora_?"

"The Beautiful Lady" was the name Zevran had granted to Mara a long time ago and he was probably the only person Alistair would tolerate calling her so. The Prince clung to what was his jealously, a legacy of one who'd never had much to call his own… A legacy that Zevran shared. Perhaps that's why the duo had bonded together so well – because they had so much in common.

Mara looked up from her embroidery to smile sadly at Zevran. "I cannot cook. My Anderfels accent is atrocious. And I cannot protect those who have sworn to serve me."

The assassin sighed. Denerim was almost febrile in its activity during the day because come the night, someone died. Most often, it was a minor servant from one of Mara's allies but last night…

…Last night someone had delivered the head of her old childhood nurse Nan and deposited it on the doorstep with a blood lotus in its mouth. Mara's eyes were still red from weeping despite the show of strength she was putting on.

"These deaths are done by someone who, for the moment, feels his goals coincide with Anora's," the elf said softly. "But I know that _Terrore Notturno_ will branch out. He delights in the deaths of women, especially noble ones."

"And he is a Crow Master," Mara replied. "The first guess is your old Master Geraldo, the second Roberto. But not Claudio, unless he was killing women from toddlerhood."

"You would believe Roberto is a serial killer?" Zevran asked, somewhat surprised, as he knew Anora's 'adviser' was a della Ferrana and foster-kin to Mara. He wondered if Anora knew.

"He is just old enough and was always precocious," was all the Runaway Wife would say in reply. She was correct about Claudio though, so Zevran decided to drop it for now. Because Geraldo _was_ vicious enough…

Before he could pursue the preparations for the upcoming Wintersend Festival, Nathanial Howe strolled into the solar of Rowan's Wing like he owned the place. Behind him were Taliesen (who'd obviously jumped ship) and two elven nurses carrying two fidgety toddlers with coarse black hair, Howe noses and Mara's eyes.

_So these are the twins Byron and Moira, _Zevran thoughtas Mara hurriedly set aside her embroidery with a soft glad cry. He could already tell that the babies would never be beautiful, not even in the exotic big-eyed way their mother was, but they'd certainly be striking.

"_I miei bambini!"_ In this, not even the foster daughter of the Prince of Crows could dissemble; this was the first time she'd beheld her babes in a very long time.

Byron, the boy, turned his head to his mother and looked at her with intelligent eyes. His eyes were more the indeterminate blue-grey of Nathanial rather than Mara's winter-sky hue. "Mamma?" he asked.

"That's right," Nate said approvingly. "Just like the picture."

He looked at Mara as if she were the only person in the room. "I showed them that wedding portrait of yours," he explained tenderly. "So they'd know who you are."

_Ti omicidio tu, bastardo,_ Zevran vowed as the Arl of Amaranthine pressed Mara's buttons. She already felt responsible for the man going off the deep end (just like she blamed herself for everything else that had happened since her marriage to Thomas Howe) and now Nate was reminding her of how well he knew her.

"That is… kind of you, Nathanial," Mara replied softly. "I… thank you."

"You're their mother. They should know who you are." Nate smiled briefly. It was frightening how _genuine_ the affection in the expression was. Whatever the Arl's other motives, he truly seemed to love Mara. "By the time this is over, they'll know just how much you sacrificed for Ferelden."

"I am _married_, Nathanial," she said warningly, insistently, as she accepted Byron from a nurse.

"Not for long if your husband keeps on picking fights with Arls," Nate drawled.

"W-What do you mean?" Mara asked, her arms tightening around Byron, who squirmed in discomfort. She instinctively lightened her hold, but she looked pleadingly at Nate, who was no doubt reading her desperation clearly.

"He was sorely wounded in a duel with Arl Leonas Bryland after the old man called him out on his idiocy involving the elves," Nate said casually. "He won though – and a good thing too. Or Leonas, by the old ways, could have claimed both kingdom and you. Because that's how Alistair challenged him."

"Wha-?" Mara was blank with shock and horror. Zevran himself was dumbfounded. What the hell was going on down south?

"By stone and earth and flame and wind," Nate continued, obviously relishing being the first one to give Mara the bad news because he thought it would make him look good. He went to touch the Runaway Wife's cheek consolingly… Only to find Zevran's blade touching his hand just before his fingers could graze her milk-pale skin.

"Prince Alistairio has commanded me to take the hand of any man who touches his wife in lust," the assassin warned with a savage grin. "Until he is dead, I must obey that command as hearthman."

"But of course," Nathanial said, stepping back as blood trickled from the thin cut on the back of his hand. "The _Prince_ couldn't have it any other way."

He looked at Taliesen and the elven nurses. "You three will remain here until she is ready to return the children. I'm leaving because if I stay much longer, I might take the head of this insolent elf and to hell with our relationship with the Antivan Crows."

He looked down at the blank-faced Mara and murmured something in Alamarri; the blue-eyed girl looked up at him in shock. Brazenly, the Queen's affianced blew her a kiss and walked out, leaving Taliesen and Zevran staring at each other.

"That man is insane," the elf warned his best friend in Antivan.

"I know," the human said with a sigh. "But the bastard's got me by the short hairs."

"Taliesen, tell me what is wrong and I can help you!" Zevran begged. It hurt him to be on the opposite side of his best friend.

"No, you can't," the human said sadly. "No one can."

Mara forced herself out of her shock with that diamond-hard will of hers and looked to Taliesen. "Tell us and maybe we can. What have you to lose – at worst, Anora and Nate still hold your leash."

"You're a good woman, Princess, but you can't help me. No one can."

Mara's eyes filled with tears as she looked down at Byron and Moira, who'd joined her brother in their mother's lap. "You will take my babies from me again. Like you took the heirs of the Bannorn. If I try to stop you, you'll kill me."

For once in his life, Taliesen looked discomforted. "I…"

Despite his concern for Alistair, Zevran began to grin as he realised the mistake Nate had made. "My friend!" he crowed. "You were commanded to stay here, yes, until Mara was ready to return the children."

"Which will be never," Mara said mulishly, her brain working quickly despite the shocks of today.

Taliesen smiled bitterly. "Clever, you two. But unless you've got a poppy farm somewhere, you can't help me."

The Crow Journeyman then straightened up from his slouch against the solar's door. "Now will you return the kids quietly, Princess, or will I need to take them from you?"

At his words, Mara broke down completely and hugged the confused twins, murmuring to them brokenly in Antivan. Then she relinquished them to the nurses and cried bitterly as they were taken away, crying themselves, to be returned to the wing where the rest of the Bannorn's heirs were held.

Zevran watched his friend leave and cried himself. What the Game did to people…

Mara wiped at her eyes and looked at Zevran. "You must go to him," she said starkly.

"I promised to stay here to protect you-" But Zevran was cut off by a chop of Mara's hand.

"I will be safe physically until the child is born. But Alistairio is wounded. Go to him. Protect him."

"And what if he should die on the way, Mara?"

"Then you are free to do as you please. But Alistairio needs someone who knows the Game beside him. Go to him and give him my love."

Zevran sighed and agreed. Truth be told, he felt useless here as Mara relied more on Claudio than himself, an attitude he could understand. "I will… But Mara?"

_"Si?"_

"I will be leaving word with the local cell that if Alistairo dies, Nate will be dead before day's end."

She gave a sad smile. "I would not have it any other way for the grief he has given me today."

Zevran nodded and made his farewells, fleeing so that Mara could break her _comportamento _and weep and pray for Alistair.


	8. Chapter 8

Note: Going directly onto the next chapter instead of doing a Kings and Griffins one because the last one was so important. I'm also bringing in the earth-sense stuff from the old version of Game of Princes, just making it a lot less powerful and far more subtle.

…

**Chapter 8**

South Reach, 15th Verimensis 9:31 (Dawn)

"So far as the world's concerned, you're healing up here for the next month," Leonas Bryland told Alistair as the Prince mounted a precious garron pony instead of the horse he'd been using. "It's all the time I can give you, Prince."

Still smarting from the glancing blow that Leonas had struck across his chest despite the healing done by the Brylands' house mage, the half-elven royal smirked wryly. "If I'm not back in a month, I better be dead because Mara will kill me."

Leonas winced. "Never have I been so glad to lose a duel then, Your Highness."

Alistair and the Arl had duelled for close on an hour, both of them becoming injured in the process, until Bryland tripped up on a rug and wound up with Alistair's sword-point at his throat. It appeared the Clayne _were_ just as dangerous as dwarven berserkers and the Prince damned well knew how lucky he was to be alive and relatively unharmed.

But now he had South Reach in addition to Waking Sea, Highever, Denerim, Rainesferre, Redcliffe, Dragon's Peak, Whitebridge and Hunter Fell (Rory Gilmore's father had ridden in two days ago to offer his allegiance). West Hills was still on the fence, though Wulff had begun to regard Alistair with more respect.

As for Loghain… The general had been told to take his forces and leave before Bryland unleashed the remnants of South Reach's militia and the Clayne hill-clans which answered to him. Loghain chose to withdraw along the Brecilian Passage to Gwaren, no doubt to winter there and fight the darkspawn as best he could.

Bryland, Gilmore and Alfstanna were in charge of the forces that answered to Alistair because he had a promise to keep: to find the Urn of Sacred Ashes, located somewhere in the Frostbacks, so that Bryce Cousland could be healed. Notes left by Brother Genitivi before his disappearance (even Mara couldn't find him) indicated they were hidden amongst the Avvar peoples.

Alistair was just about to make his farewells when a familiar Antivan voice drawled, "Mara might just kill you anyway for giving her such grief and worry, Alistairio."

The Prince sighed in frustration as Zevran, mounted on a sleek messenger pony, ambled up to him. "Does anybody actually ever listen to my orders?" he asked of the air.

"Mara is the safest jewel in Ferelden at the moment with the babe in her belly," Zevran observed dryly. "And I have been sitting idle because I am your man – and she has her own people."

"Princess Mara doesn't trust you?" Alfstanna asked with a raised eyebrow.

Zevran smiled winningly at the attractive Bann. "It is not a matter of distrust but one of resources. She sent me here because there is none who know the Game, both murder and Princes, with Alistairio. Whereas with herself, Teagan, Shianni and Claudio d'Antiva, she has an embarrassment of spies, assassins and politicians."

"I… won't argue with her. She'll be pissed enough with me about the news going around I was sorely wounded," Alistair conceded with a sigh. "Zevran, I need to look for the Urn of Sacred Ashes. We need Cousland and it's the only thing which might heal him."

"Mara found some more of Genitivi's notes and she has sent them with me," Zevran said quietly. "It appears she'd already anticipated me coming to you and prepared a travel pack with the necessary papers."

Leonas shook his head in awe. "Maker's breath! She's… what… eighteen or nineteen and has the political instincts of a woman in her thirties!"

"Not instincts, but training instilled in her so deep they are almost like it," Zevran corrected quietly. "Mara can be caught flatfooted and those who know her buttons can press them quite easily."

"Nate's using the children, isn't he?" Alistair asked, wishing he'd found a way to kill that bastard a long time ago.

"Of course. I also left word with Claudio and Ignacio that if you die, he is to die within an hour of the word reaching Denerim," Zevran replied. "The only reason I have stayed my hand, Alistairio, is out of respect for your scruples."

"So you're Alistair's pet Crow hearthman," Leonas observed, finally realising who and what Zevran was.

"I offered allegiance of my own free will as I am a Free Master at the very least… and a Grandmaster at the most," Zevran replied honestly. "The hopes of more than one people ride upon Alistairio, Arl Bryland. Remember that."

"I am… beginning to understand that," Leonas confirmed, sighing. "I… consider Bryce a friend. A good one. And he is a fine man. But must you risk your life in pursuit of a legend simply to save one man?"

"He's needed," Sighard reminded the Arl. "Bryce has diplomatic experience neither of us have, old friend."

"That is… true." Leonas shook his head with a sigh. "We will hold the fort for you and see if we can talk some sense into Loghain's people. But we can only give you a month, Alistair."

"Then I'd better get riding, shouldn't I? Maker watch over you all."

"And you, Your Highness. Return swiftly and let us unite our people in the face of the Blight."

Alistair touched his heels to the sturdy garron and now accompanied by Zevran in addition to his faithful Barkspawn headed into the west to chase a fable.

…

Somewhere near Lothering, 15th Verimensis (Night)

"We'll be going via Ostagar. There are things I need to collect."

Zevran was in the middle of heating up a quick meal of porridge as there was no fresh meat to be had in the wintry Blight-ravaged landscape when Alistair made his casual announcement. "I would ask if you were insane… but I already know you are."

Alistair chuckled dryly. "I wouldn't be doing this if I was putting us in unreasonable danger."

"Darkspawn aren't unreasonable danger?" Zev asked sarcastically.

"When compared to Cailan's arms and royal papers? No." Alistair held up a hand before Zev could say anything. "This was also _my_ idea. My brother was far more foresighted than people give him credit for. Not even Mara knows the extent of his preparations for if he should fall in battle."

"It sounds like he planned to die in the battle," Zev mused as he stirred the pot.

"I think he was hoping more for a tainting so he could join the Grey Wardens," Alistair observed with a sigh.

"Speaking of darkspawn, how are we going to get past them without a Warden… or survive an ambush?" Zev sort of felt that was a rather important and pertinent detail.

"Ah. It appears challenging Arl Bryland in the old way yielded more than another vassal," Alistair replied, now grinning. "He taught me a little ritual which binds me to the soil and stone of Ferelden through my vassals. It seems it's an old Alamarri thing to bleed on a sacred stone and gain a connection that lets me know how the land is doing."

"Keepers have magic like that," Zevran said slowly. "You will be able to sense the taint?"

"Not as strongly as a Warden, but I will be able to give us some warning," Alistair confirmed with a smile.

Zevran abandoned the porridge to kneel before the Prince, bowing deep enough that his hair brushed the ground. "Truly, you are Ellath'len and you will bring about Vhen'alas," he murmured fervently.

"Uh… Zev? Please don't bow like that. I'm not the second coming of Andraste or anything," Alistair said, sounding uncomfortable.

"Maybe not to the shems, but to the city elves, you might as well be," Zevran told him as he straightened up. "You will give us true freedom and the Vhenadahls will bloom in your presence."

Alistair stared at the elf with wide, surprised eyes. "You… really believe that?"

"Of course. Did you just think I swore myself to you as hearthman just because I liked you?"

Alistair's lips quirked. "And here I thought you were enraptured by my stunning good looks and wanted to serve me in a more intimate fashion."

Zevran found it in him to grin at the joke. "Your wife is far too scary to piss off like that."

Alistair's face lost its humour. "Is she… any stronger? I didn't want to ask in front of the others because-"

"She is no stronger but no weaker either."

Alistair sighed. "Maker dammit. We should have waited. I should have made her drink contraceptive teas or something…"

"And that would have shattered your marriage. Mara knows what a noblewoman's primary purpose is and she will die fulfilling it."

The look Alistair gave Zevran was stark in its fear. "My mother died in childbirth, Zev. What if Mara does? What do I do then?"

There was no answer Zev could answer that and so the rest of the evening was spent in an uncomfortable silence.

…

Ostagar, 17th Verimensis (Noon)

It was well-known that the darkspawn could not abide the sunlight, so Alistair and Zevran had chosen to sneak into Ostagar during the day. The merciless sun shone down starkly on pristine white snow dotted with the corpses of darkspawn and Fereldan alike.

"It is so clean," Alistair murmured. "Why is that so?"

"Because a King died here," spoke an old woman's rough voice. "Because Cailan, your brother, gave his life willingly for Ferelden."

"The given death," Alistair agreed. "Even though he was never earthbound-"

"He still died in battle trying to protect Ferelden," Flemeth confirmed as she emerged from the mists, clad in a dress of dragonskin and a headdress with horns. "The darkspawn may control this place but they cannot taint the land beneath."

"That's some small relief," Alistair said as he stood up, nodding politely to the Witch of the Wilds. "But you wouldn't be here just to tell me this."

"No, I am not," Flemeth agreed with a wicked smile. "I must confess, Ellath'len, I was not expecting you to return here so soon. I was anticipating the presence of the Cousland girl and the Grey Wardens with you. This is… unexpected."

"I can confound a Witch of the Wilds. That's good; I have a chance against the Landsmeet," Alistair drawled, concealing his… concern… in sarcasm. "So why are you here?"

"Is it fate or is it chance? I can never decide," Flemeth mused, tapping her pointed chin with a talonlike nail. "Change is on the wind, in the earth, in the flames, on the water. The Grey Wardens have already initiated it in ways even I did not anticipate. You have begun more with your granting of the Three Gifts to the elves. Your decisions will ripple throughout Thedas like a boulder flung into a lake."

"What is your point, Asha'bellanar?" Zevran asked, voice hoarse with fear.

"The sun rises in the west holding a burning sword and a grey shadow rises on white wings in the east to match it. The promised child is a bridge between races and-"

"Enough!" Alistair interrupted quietly but sharply. He didn't need or want ambiguous prophecy. He always felt that living life without knowledge of the future was best because if you knew the future, why strive for anything? "Unless you have practical help for us or have something you'd like us to do, Flemeth, please just… go. I need to get Cailan's papers at the very least."

"I saved your life and this is how you thank me?" Flemeth asked, sounding amused.

"Actually, _Morrigan_ saved my life. And Mara's too," Alistair reminded her, making the Witch of the Wilds cackle gleefully.

"Ah, you are much wiser and cannier than your father was when I met him, boy! Is it wisdom or blindness that makes you unwilling to know of the future, I wonder?"

"Wisdom or blindness, it's my _choice_, Flemeth. Now again: _what do you want?_" Alistair was starting to get impatient because they were wasting daylight here and he wanted to be out of Ostagar by nightfall.

"To see what manner of man you had become," the Witch replied idly. "But now my curiosity is sated. You'd better hurry, Ellath'len, because the darkspawn are beginning to stir."

And with those words she transformed into a dragon and flew off with a cry, leaving behind a stunned Zevran and a livid Alistair.

"Let's get this over with," the Bastard Prince said as they prepared to enter the place where the world had changed forever.

…

The Tower of Ishal, 17th Verimensis (Late Afternoon)

Fergus Cousland and the remnants of his troops had forgotten what hope was. Abandoned by the army and trapped in the Tower of Ishal, their only saving graces were that the darkspawn couldn't penetrate the enchanted heart of the dwarven-built fortress and that Teyrn Loghain had seen fit to leave a number of rations in case the King and Maric's Shield had been forced to retreat. Given that Cailan's body had been strung up by darkspawn, an idiot could have figured out that Loghain betrayed the King. The only question was _why._ Unfortunately, Fergus and his people couldn't escape to find out.

Today the Tower was eerily silent; were the darkspawn occupied elsewhere? Did he dare send a scout to find out if they could make a run for it-

Suddenly the barricaded door split open under a ballista bolt, sending men scrambling to get out of the way of splinters and for their weapons. Fergus drew the Cousland greatsword with a curse-

"It appears that one of my greatest fantasies – a group of handsome, sexually deprived men trapped in a fortress – has come true," drawled the vaguely familiar blond elf with a Crow's tattoos.

Fergus blinked, wondering if he was hallucinating, but promptly replied in Antivan, "If you think we're handsome, you must be equally sexually deprived."

"Oh, I am," the elf admitted cheerfully. "My companion is not interested in men, and even if he were, his wife would kill me. Slowly and painfully."

"For the love of Andraste, Zev, shut up- _FERGUS COUSLAND?_" Another vaguely familiar voice, deeper and with a Redcliffe accent, yelped his name in shock as a tall, broad-shouldered man in good silverite armour shoved the slightly offended Antivan aside. "By the Maker, it's really you!"

The blade in his hand – serrated and so heavily runed it left an afterimage of blue and gold in Fergus' eyes – and the shield on his other arm revealed who it was. If Alistair Theirin had looked hard previously, the man who stood before the heir to Highever made the prince who came to Ostagar look weak and naïve. He had more scars and had gained an air of authority – if Cailan was dead, then the Bastard Prince was King now, surely.

"We don't have time to talk," Alistair continued sharply. "Get your men together. We've got to kill the darkspawn lingering in this place and give our people – including Cailan – as decent a funeral as we can."

Fergus looked at the ten soldiers – the remnants of Highever's two thousand troops – and the men, who'd managed to keep themselves remarkably fit for people trapped in a barricaded room for months, appeared ready to fight. Fergus embraced the rage of an Alamarri warrior with a savage grin as he said, "Let's give these bastards some payback!"

…

Ostagar, 18th Verimensis (Mid-Afternoon)

"You two came here on your own. You're fucking insane, you know that?"

Perhaps not the most tactful choice of words to use when speaking to one's liege lord, but Fergus had lost a lot of his social graces whilst being besieged in the Tower of Ishal. They'd fought their way through several dozen darkspawn, an undead Ogre, some kind of genlock emissary and a pack of Blight wolves, and were now sorting out the pyres for the bodies – including Cailan's – they'd managed to locate.

"We needed those papers and I couldn't send anyone to get them," Alistair replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "And this is just a stop on the way to get the Urn of Sacred Ashes to heal your father."

Fergus had been briefed on the current situation last night; only the need to keep control of his emotions had stopped him from exploding in dramatic fashion. Even now, a quiet fury simmered deep within, awaiting the first chance to erupt upon a legitimate target. Right now it was an even choice between Loghain, Anora, Nate Howe or Rennio.

"Speaking of fathers, I can't believe you left Mara alone in Denerim with that… that… _Howe_," Fergus continued tightly.

"Do you think I'm happy about it?" Alistair demanded, golden eyes sparking with anger. "I want nothing more than to hang that piece of shit by his balls over a slow fire. But until I'm King, I can't do anything about it."

"_La Bella Signora _is not without allies: she has Claudio Valisti with her and if it came down to the line, Roberto della Ferrana would also stand with her," Zevran added quietly. "As a d'Antiva woman, she will be removed – whatever she wishes – at the first sign of trouble."

Fergus swore vilely in Alamarri. "My mother is dead, murdered probably by a Crow Master; my father is dying, probably poisoned by one; my wife's in the bloody Chantry because she tried to stop our son being taken from us after another Crow Master showed up; and now you're entrusting my sister's safety to a couple more! What the fuck is going on in your head, Theirin?"

"It's called trusting Mara to do what she was trained for," Alistair retorted with equal anger in his voice. "I don't fucking like it. But I have to live with it."

"And you've knocked her up again within less than two years of bearing twins and during a time of great stress!" Fergus knew distantly he should probably stop yelling at his liege lord but he needed to vent some of his rage before he exploded. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you married her to bind our houses together and therefore subsume the Couslands' right to get the throne if the Theirins die out… and once she's popped out a baby, you won't need her anymore, will you?"

Alistair's eyes were incandescent gold with fury. "Were you anyone else in any other circumstance, I'd lay you out on the snow with a punch. But I know you're tired, hurt and angry, so I will let those words pass this once."

"But you had political reasons to marry her, surely," Fergus pressed, though he moderated his tone a bit.

"Of course. And I know some of the reason Mara married me was to keep herself safe because she couldn't stand Nate anymore," Alistair replied, his own tone softening a little. "But I know that she's an amazing woman and I wish I'd the balls to leave the Chantry earlier so she could have married me before Thomas Howe."

"You forgot to add that your dogs match-made you two," Zevran added lazily, seemingly unperturbed by the tension between the men. "Such things are important to you Fereldans, _si_?"

A couple of Fergus' men snickered as the heir to Highever sighed angrily. "I… never liked the idea of marrying Mara to Thomas. But your father was keen on the idea and mine took the hint."

"My lords, the pyres are ready," announced one of the men. Alistair and Fergus exchanged looks as they went to collect torches to send the dead to the Maker.

For no matter how many died, the living had to continue else all would be in vain.

…

The Gauntlet, 21st Verimensis (Indeterminate Time)

"Alistair, knight and prince. In pursuit of your goals you have knowingly left behind those who rely upon you for protection: Yarin, who languishes in Fort Drakon; Mara, alone and pregnant, trapped with her enemies; Eleanor, murdered; the elves of Denerim, sold into slavery… Do you regret doing so? Would you do anything different?"

"Of course I do!" Alistair said, voice raw with pain. "Of course I would! But I have to keep on going forward or we'll all be lost."

"Indeed," the Guardian agreed. His piercing eyes went next to Zevran.

"Zevran of the-"

"Yes, yes, I regret many things. I regret not killing Geraldo d'Rialto much sooner. I regret Rinna's death. I regret not being able to help Taliesen. If I stand here listing my regrets, we'll be done somewhere around the Seventh Blight."

The spirit sighed but nodded before looking at Fergus. The surviving Highever men had accompanied the trio and Barkspawn as far as the mountaintop, their numbers devastated by darkspawn, cultist and a High Dragon. Of the ten who'd survived Ostagar, only five remained, two of whom were severely wounded and likely to die.

"Yes, I regret leaving my family behind, hiding in a tower while others died, and a few other things," the heir to Highever snapped. "But unless you've got a practical way of dealing with the issue, I advise you shut up and let us get to the Ashes."

"You must be found worthy," the Guardian replied calmly. "The Gauntlet will test you."

"Maker forbid we should just stroll through and get the Ashes," Fergus muttered. "Let's get this shit over and done with."

"As you wish," the Guardian said – and vanished as the door opened to reveal a long corridor.

Passing through the hall of riddling spirits was a piece of cake for a man raised by the Chantry and a noble educated by a Mage of the Circle. When it came time to speak to Shartan, the spirit looked Alistair in the eye and said distinctly, _"Ellath'len. Bring us _home_."_

"I will," Alistair promised as the spirit turned into dust and air.

Once past the door at the other end, the three men and a dog encountered another spirit: what form it took and what it said remained private forever. But upon speaking to it, each man felt a burden lifted from their shoulders and knew that they had been absolved of their sins.

The fight against shadow-selves and the ensuing puzzle were child's play compared to the harrowing experiences of before. But now they stood before the Ashes of Andraste, protected by a wall of flame…

"Uh, if I am reading that correctly, I think we need to remove our clothing," Alistair said nervously. It seemed some of the nervous Chantry Boy remained despite all of his experiences.

"Oooh, my lucky day!" Zevran observed cheerfully.

If looks could kill, the glares Fergus and Alistair bestowed upon him should have murdered the elf instantly.

"Like Andraste, you have passed through the flames and been purified," intoned the Guardian behind them. "Each of you is permitted to take a pinch."

"Sooo… I wonder how this works. 'Add one pinch of Andraste to holy water and cure all ills'," Alistair murmured dryly.

The Guardian sighed but said nothing as each man took a pinch and placed it in a leather pouch. At least they had backups now…

They left the Gauntlet as quickly as they could, rejoining Fergus' men, who'd come across a kidnapped and injured Brother Genitivi in their looting of the temple and Haven. The injured men had died…

Alistair looked at Fergus calmly. "I need you to ride with your men to Highever at all speed – take my garron – and heal your father. I need him in Denerim as soon as possible."

"Of course," Fergus replied. "…I assume I'm to rejoin you when Father's well?"

"Yes. You're an experienced battle commander and you kept your people alive while trapped in the Tower of Ishal for several months. I need that."

Fergus nodded curtly. "And you'll have it."

"Thank you… Please, if you can, stop by Gherlen's Gates and find out how Daveth's people are going. If we don't get the dwarves on our side, the Blight will kill us all."

Fergus smiled grimly. "I need to have a word with Daveth the Deft concerning his treatment of my sister anyway, so I'll do my best."

Alistair grinned. "Kick him a couple times for me?"

Fergus nodded. "As you wish… Your Majesty."


	9. Chapter 9

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! The song Mara sings is the Italian Babylon-translated version of 'Hush Little Baby'.

…

**Chapter 9**

The Landsmeet Chamber, Denerim, 22nd Verimensis 9:31 (Noon)

"Lady Mara-"

"Princess Mara," Mara corrected with a sweet smile. Up close, she was looking a little less peaked and with more colour to her cheeks. Was her health improving somewhat?

Every time Marjolaine thought she'd gotten the girl pinned down, Mara changed tactics and did something unexpected. She appeared to be switching between passive vacillation and active participation in the Game; the Gamesmistress had to admit that the foster daughter of d'Antiva was proving to be slightly more challenging than she'd expected. She wasn't worthy of a true game of cat and mouse, but she couldn't be simply left alone either. If she survived the birth of her child, then she'd be a real threat to Celene's plans.

"By the way, Marjolaine, your accent is very good but not quite authentic," Mara added in Orlesian as she continued to knit, sitting on a comfortable chair reserved for the frail and elderly members of the royal family. "You need to decide whether you're from Rialto or Ferrana, not switch between the two."

"I am Jolaine, a simple lady's maid from Antiva City-"

"And I am Andraste born again," the girl drawled, actually sounding amused. "You didn't exactly bother to conceal yourself or your nature to those who know what to look for."

Marjolaine allowed herself to laugh. Perhaps Rennio hadn't entirely destroyed the girl. "Very perceptive, child. Did Leliana tell you what to look for?"

Mara's face spasmed with a pain that Marjolaine admittedly shared. "I taught myself in this regard."

"Ah." Marjolaine smiled at the girl. "Tell me, _petite-fille_, what are your plans now? Will you uncover me and risk making another enemy? Or will you bide your time? Or even try to make an ally of me?"

"I will not uncover you, _grand-mère_, though I really wish the Orlesian Empress would not play such games during a Blight. But you and I, we have an appointment for a promise I made upon the knife."

"Ah. So that is why Leliana died defending your children." Marjolaine rearranged the soft green wool of her shawl about her shoulders as she studied the girl.

Mara was clad in a simple gown of black silk-wool with a long sleeved vest of subtly figured wool brocade. Though she was looking a little better, she was still a bit too pale, her pretty face far too worn and overlarge blue eyes too old for her youth. Marjolaine now knew not to underestimate her mentally, but physically she was no threat to the elder bard with her pregnancy.

_"Si,"_ was the simple reply.

"Why are you telling me this, pretty little girl? You have forewarned me and so I shall be prepared," Marjolaine said, fondly chiding her granddaughter.

Mara raised her eyes again and met the elder bard's gaze full-on. Even Marjolaine shivered – inwardly – at the cold depths of that blue-eyed stare. This was the Crow Mara could have been.

"One who is condemned to die always should have a little time to settle their affairs and prepare their soul to meet the Maker," the Princess replied icily as she rose. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to see _miei bambini._"

Marjolaine watched her leave, refusing to be intimidated. What was that little blue-eyed bit playing at?

…

"Mama?"

Mara smiled down at Byron as Moira played with some toy soldiers in the corner. They were precocious and roguish little children, much like their parents, and neither of them appeared to be _dweomer_ – thank the Maker.

_"Si?"_ she asked, looking into those stormy eyes so much like their father's.

"Song?"

_"Si,"_ she agreed. Byron grinned, his expression so cheerful… Mara kept on seeing shadows of the man his father could have been.

_Speaking of the father…_ Mara looked away from the boy momentarily to meet Nate's intense gaze in the doorway. The love and wistfulness in that expression was almost enough to make her forget the deception, the bloodshed and the heartbreak this man had wrought.

_"Acknowledge your regrets but do not allow them to rule you,"_ Wynne had chided the other day after Mara had a bout of weeping blaming herself for everything going wrong in Ferelden since she'd run away with Daveth. The mage was fulfilling the role Sofia della Ferrana had back in Antiva: mother and confidante in ways Eleanor Cousland never had.

It broke Mara's heart to admit she could never love and mourn her birth mother the way she should, but the death of Nan had wounded her more…

Her thoughts ranged to Rennio. Her father in all but name yet now a stranger to her… She wondered if Leliana had felt the same grief and heartbreak at Marjolaine's betrayal as Mara did on the discovery of some pertinent information from Oriana.

_Is nothing sacred to the father of my heart?_ Even though Rendon Howe had certainly planned betrayal, the Couslands could not have done anything to violate the laws of hospitality until the old Arl had acted. Rennio, as guest and kin, and Oriana as a wedded daughter of the house should have known better…

"What's wrong?" Nate asked softly, lovingly, in that way which tugged at her heartstrings and brought to mind the attentive, gentle husband of that first month-

"Everything," she replied simply and honestly. He knew too many of her tells to be deceived by any lie of hers.

It was a dangerous double-game she played with this particular player of the murder game. Love could turn to hate so easily and even at her peak, she couldn't hope to defeat him in a fight, fair or not.

"All will be fixed after the Landsmeet," he assured her with a smile. "Well, aside from the Blight, but that's what your friends are for, right?"

Mara wondered how Daveth was going in Orzammar. Rumour had it that an Exalted March had been called in Orlais after the thief had rescued the mages. She prayed that Morrigan got her soon; she'd need a shapeshifting mage but the children Daisy and Torry, now safely with Aldous and Oren, were too young.

Knowing Daveth, he was probably giving the entire establishment the finger and wreaking havoc. He was dangerous when unsupervised…

"Mama, song!" Byron demanded. When Mara gave him a long, eloquent look, the boy added, "Please!"

Drawn from her reverie, she nodded and smiled. _"Bambino non dire una parola, madre di comperare una siepe. Se l'uccello non squilla, madre di acquistare un anello con diamante..."_

It was a song that Sofia had sung to her. It would be a song she'd sing to these children and the one in her womb, Maker willing…

…

Denerim Marketplace, 23rd Verimensis (Morning)

Being a knight wasn't as glorious as he'd expected… but it was a damned sight better than being Garrett Hawke's little brother.

Carver hauled casks of spiced wine under the critical eye of Cesar and Master Ignacio, stacking them near the small stage where Mara would sit during the Wintersend Festival. He had more than a few doubts about the plan for the night of chaos, but he couldn't quite articulate them. He had to trust that Milady Mara knew what she was doing…

"Ser Carver?" Arl Teagan's quiet patrician tones interrupted the burly youth's working trance; he looked down to the shorter auburn-haired man curiously but put the barrel where it was supposed to go.

"Yes, Milord?" he asked politely.

Teagan smiled. "Go and put on your armour. Mara has requested we try something and you'd be perfect for it."

Carver groaned but went to obey; the Redcliffe estate wasn't too far away…

Soon enough he returned in the silverite plate given to him by his liege lady (Mara might be fickle when it came to men but damned if the girl didn't give her liegefolk the best!) to find Teagan waiting with Shianni, Captain Kylon and a squad of the Night Watch. "What are we doing?" he asked.

"Testing the limits of Arlessa Mara's authority in Denerim," Kylon grated. "By law and marriage, she has the right to command us… and she's given the order to open the Alienage."

"Isn't there plague in there?" Carver asked, remembering some vague rumours…

"If it's a real plague being treated by Tevinters, then I'm a shem!" Shianni snapped.

Carver winced. "I didn't mean anything by it!"

"Fine. I guess not everyone in the house pays attention," Shianni groused. "Let's do this. I've got cousins to rescue."

It wasn't such a long walk to the Alienage gate and already a small crowd, mostly elves, were gathering around to see what happened. "Open the gate!" snapped Captain Kylon.

"Arl's ordered it to stay shut," the guard replied insolently.

"Which Arl?"

"The Arl of Amaranthine."

"Well, the Arlessa of _Denerim_ wants this gate open. Now get the bloody thing unlocked before I cut off your head for insubordination."

"If you think I'm going to take the orders of some arse-licking lackey of a bastard half-elf's whore-" His words were cut off by Carver's swift unsheathing of his longbar blade and the subsequent decapitation.

"What?" the young warrior asked, shrugging his heavily armoured shoulders as everyone gasped at the sudden violence. "Isn't it a knight's duty to defend the honour of his mistress?"

Olin looked at him shrewdly. "No… But he was sort of more or less telling the truth about the girl in a less than polite way."

"Mara's many things but I don't think anyone ever paid her to have sex," Carver retorted.

"That's… true." Kylon shook his head and yelled, "Someone open that fucking-"

The lattice gate suddenly cracked as tendrils of thorny vines woven themselves through it with magical speed. Carver's senses, honed by his father who wanted a failsafe for his mageborn daughter, detected an old, primal magic working through the very bones of the earth-

The gate fell apart to reveal a slim elven girl, carrying a simple wooden staff, standing in the midst of a circle of lush green grass that begged to be walked barefoot through. She wore green to match her enormous eyes, had black hair braided with wooden talismans, and had delicate tattoos which emphasised the alien structure of her face. Compared to her, Shianni looked almost human.

"Oh, hello. I didn't get splinters on you, did I? I rather thought I'd save you the trouble of opening that rotten gate. Beastly thing, locking in the _elvhen'suledin_ like that. Not that I'm saying you did it! You wanted it open so you mustn't have been the ones who wanted it closed."

Her voice was soft and light with a lilting accent. She really was quite beautiful…

"Oh dear. I'm babbling! Where are my manners?"

"Keeper Merrill," Shianni said with something resembling respect. "You know by law these men are to report you to the templars?"

"Oh." Merrill looked at the stunned guards. "You're not going to arrest me, are you? That would be awkward. Very awkward."

"Technically using magic in service to the Denerim City Watch isn't illegal, so you're fine," Kylon said with a wry smile. "Dalish then?"

"Oh yes. I'm Merrill. Not a Keeper, but a First. I don't want to be offensive but the Alienages need more Keepers. They'd remember things much better then."

She was so cute and adorable, like a little kitten. Carver wanted to scoop her up and hug her.

"How have you evaded the Magisters?" Teagan asked in astonishment.

"What magisters?"

"The ones who were enslaving the elves… or so we believed."

"Oh. Them. They're dead. We tried to tell you shemlen but you wouldn't open the gate."

"I and the witch killed them," announced a rough, sensuous voice as a sinuous combination of muscle and white scarification emerged from the shadows. It was an elven man, quite beautiful in his way, clad in spiky grey and silver armour with a blade nearly bigger than Carver on his back.

"Fenris, please don't call me a witch. I have a name, you know," Merrill chided.

The elf – whose accent was pure Tevinter – pursed his lips. "My… apologies. It is hard to…"

"Oh. I understand. The magisters were very mean to you. It's a shame the man who hurt you wasn't with the slavers."

"Anora is going to have a fit," Teagan breathed.

Kylon, on the other hand, was grinning broadly. "Well, I see we have two new members of the City Watch here!"

Fenris raised a coal-black eyebrow, a startling contrast to his snow-white hair. "Watch?"

"Prince Alistair ordered me to recruit elven members of the City Watch. Since you two have shown an inclination to serve and protect, I'm deputising you two."

"Yay…! Wait, what does that mean?" Merrill asked.

Kylon took a long look at the elven duo before looking at Carver and Shianni. "Could you two please explain and make certain of things in the Alienage?" he asked. "I think Teagan, Olin and I would do better reporting to the Princess."

Carver nodded absently as he stared at Merrill, who was now entranced by a passing tabby kitten. From the corner of his eye he noted Shianni eyeing Fenris like she did a bottle of good wine, even to the point of licking her lips.

Things just got very, very good indeed. Maybe this idea of Mara's wasn't absolute madness if they could get these two on their side…


	10. Chapter 10

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. I start university again in just over three weeks, so I want to get as much of this part of the Game of Princes as I can while I'm in a writing mood.

…

**Chapter 10**

Denerim, 24th Verimensis (Night)

In five days come tomorrow, all hell would break loose and it would be Mara's duty to somehow ride the storm and guide it to where she wanted it to be.

She silently thanked the Maker she was still slim enough to fit into her bardic armour and to be able to slip through a window from the second floor of the Palace. The Royal Guard was supposed to be the best in the kingdom, but with the recruitment of so many noble bastards by Anora in pursuit of the Crown, its quality had rather declined. Even fat and slow as she was through a combination of pregnancy and lingering effects of the tisane she drank regularly, it was practically child's play to exit the Palace unseen.

A fine line she walked, appearing to be harmless and helpless but still cunning enough if need be. The tisane certainly helped, for no symptom was as real as the one actually experienced. Wynne had assured her that the babe was strong as most of her body's energy reserves went to the child… even as she advised that Mara had better stop taking the mixture soon just in case she damaged it.

She followed the Thieves' Road on the rooftops of Denerim, described to her in detail by Seth Cauldry, and nodded politely to the members of the League of Honest Businessmen she encountered as she would any familiar stranger on the streets below. In a perfect world, there would be no need of an organised crime syndicate; but this was an imperfect existence and a group like the League kept the level of crime acceptable.

It was almost amusing how the Orlesians and their League of the Rose assumed they were the only 'bards' in the world. Marjolaine thought Leliana had taught Mara very well, which was half the truth; but the Antivans had their own tradition, one Sofia had sought to steep Mara in so that she could learn something of human nature even if she never used the skills.

_Signora di Bella Guerra_. The Lady of Beautiful War. Zevran had begun to guess at the truth of her teaching when he started calling her Beautiful Lady. But even the Antivan Crow knew little of how extensive her training was.

_Dove c'è volontà, c'è un modo._ Everyone knew of Sister Leliana, the redhaired trickster from Orlais in Lothering Chantry, but few noticed gentle-eyed, soft-voiced Mother Rosa despite her coming from Antiva. Leliana certainly noticed but chose to ignore the Mother's quiet and wicked sense of humour.

Rosa was a Beautiful Lady once in service to House della Ferrana until she sought the peace of the Chantry. But living up to their motto _"Dove c'è volontà, c'è un modo"_ – "Where there's a will, there's a way" – Sofia della Ferrana had asked her to go to Lothering and complete Mara's training as best she could.

She had until the winter just before Mara's fourteenth birthday, dying peacefully in her sleep. It had been then that Leliana taught her _In Uthenara_, as the Beautiful Lady tradition was more focused on grace and style in all things instead of the bardic emphasis on the arts. The traditions actually meshed quite well and Mara was surprised more bards didn't train as Beautiful Ladies and vice versa.

But when a Beautiful Lady decided someone had to die, she did it by her hand, either through poison or outright bladework. And so Mara was following that tradition tonight.

She'd made a promise to Leliana to avenge her. And so, Maker willing, Marjolaine's death would be swift and certain.

Mara inwardly apologised to Arl Bryland for the chaos she was about to unleash upon his household as she crouched on Bann Franderel's roof, observing the second-story lady's maid's bedroom – located on the east side so she'd be woken by the sunrise – that Marjolaine used. The candle was lit, showing the bard's profile, and the oiled parchment covering it would be flimsy as a courtesan's promise after the sleet of late Verimensis- A small dragonbone needle, dipped in a combination of potent crow poison and soldier's bane, ought to punch right through it.

She readied the blowpipe and dart carefully, knowing she had at best a half-minute to act-

A shadow loomed behind her, having snuck up while she was preoccupied with scouting Marjolaine's room (when she focused, she always did so too much!), and reached for her with pale strong hands.

Desperately Mara rolled off the Bann of West Hill's roof and clutched at an ornate gable to stop herself falling a storey or more right into his wife's rosebushes. It took every ounce of discipline she ever possessed to not scream; if her broken body was found tomorrow, Ferelden would shatter at the worst possible time-

Mara forced the hand clutching the dart to let go of the gable as the pale strong hands above her groped blindly for her. Willing her other arm to stay strong and grip the gable just _long enough_, she lashed out blindly with the dart at one of the clutching hands… and connected. A hiss of pain was the response as she let go, simply falling to the ground below.

Or so the stranger would believe; Mara managed to angle her fall to land in the pile of compost instead of a rosebush. Unpleasant, but far less so than actually winding up in a blood-rose bush.

Of course the wind was knocked out of her and Mara prayed her child wouldn't be damaged because of it; she risked a glance up as she tried to gather her breath and saw a dark figure slowly fall from the Bann's roof to land with a thud.

If he wasn't dead from that poison, the fall would likely finish the job. If he survived both, the demons of the Fade must love him.

_In caso di dubbio, improvvisare ed eseguire come l'inferno_, she thought wryly, exhilarated at having evaded a potential murderer. Maybe he was even the Night Terror. While she wasn't completely out of the clear, she had survived one encounter.

_"Marjolaine, Leliana lui envoie le respect!"_ Mara yelled once she had her breath. Her Jader accent (where Leliana had spent most of her life) was a little off, but only Marjolaine would know.

_When in doubt, improvise and run like hell,_ she thought again as the elder bard opened the window like a rank amateur and yelled, "What?" She received a sleeping gas bomb right in her face.

Mara didn't wait to stick around as lights suddenly appeared in Bann Franderal's place; she took a few steps back and then ran, leaping to grab a foothold in an ancient ivy vine and scale the back wall like a spider. She then landed lightly on her feet and ran like hell as chaos broke loose behind her.

She couldn't predict the upshot of all of this, but gaining her first true victory in the Game was enough to keep her grinning all the way back home to the Redcliffe estate… and a very irate Teagan.

…

"If you ever endanger the Theirin heir in your belly with idiotic stunts ever again, I will enact Alistair's _other_ command and bloody well lock you in your room!"

Mara Theirin was scraped, scratched, bruised and exhausted, but otherwise intact – as was the baby. And despite Teagan's justified tirade, the Princess just kept on grinning at him, big blue eyes twinkling as she recounted the evening's adventure.

If she hadn't been pregnant and weak from that bloody tisane she'd been drinking (Shianni had told him about it), he'd have applauded her ability to improvise. The dead corpse in Bann Franderal's garden gave him the excuse to arrest the 'Antivan' lady's maid Jolaine… Who Mara informed him was the Gamesmistress and bard Marjolaine. Some of the paperwork she had in her possession, written in bardic code, had been… _interesting._

The body of the man Mara had killed hadn't been identified yet; they'd need to wait for the City Watch to get around to it. Or Anora's court mage. Or even Wynne.

"I will not," Mara promised sincerely. "I have fulfilled my promise to Leliana – though I advise you slay Marjolaine swiftly to be certain of her. I can translate her papers if need be."

"And so you shall be," Teagan promised. "I also intend to keep you under hourly watch, Princess. Until that babe is born, you are property of Ferelden."

Something went cold and flat in Mara's face. "_Si._ That is all a noblewoman is: property. She belongs to her father, then her husband, then maybe her sons if she lives long enough."

Teagan winced, feeling remorseful as he recalled the way Mara had been treated over the past few years. "I didn't mean it like that-"

"Maybe not intentionally, Teagan. But… I intend to see a world where my daughter will not be a bargaining chip in the Game of Princes. And if I must lie, cheat, murder and steal to see it done, I will."

"I… understand. But you must be careful until the child is born. Maker's breath, Anora could use this against you! She could order you confined-"

"She does not have that authority. Only the ruling monarch may confine a member of the nobility without permission from the Landsmeet." Mara smiled sharply. "We have rather more room to manoeuvre than we thought, Arl Teagan."

"We still shouldn't push our luck. If you're seen as reckless, Alistair could be commanded by the Landsmeet to set you aside and marry a more docile girl," Teagan warned. "And since I doubt you want that to happen…"

"Of course not!" Mara suddenly looked stricken. "I couldn't abide to lose him!"

"Then please be careful," Teagan urged. "I know you've been taught to do things by your own hand – which is good – you don't have that luxury at the moment."

Mara nodded dumbly, eyes glittering with tears, and Teagan decided to drop it. She wasn't stupid, only… headstrong and inclined to do things herself. "No more tisane. You must get stronger for the Landsmeet. Ill health is another reason for you to be set aside."

"_Si. _It has served his purpose…" Mara looked troubled. "Why have we not heard from Alistairio? All we have heard is he's wounded."

Teagan sighed. "I… honestly don't know. Bryland's not answering me. Maker, if he's dead…!"

Mara's face turned cold. "If he is dead, I have no choice but to marry you and make a play for the throne to keep my children safe. But please do not speak of such things. I must believe he is alive."

Jaded Houndmaster though he was, Teagan still felt bleak and angry at the world for forcing an eighteen-year-old girl to think of such things. Mara was right, of course, but-

_Maker, please let Alistair be alive-_

…

Lothering, 24th Verimensis

Through some miracle, the rose still bloomed. Loony Leliana's sacred rose, a sign from the Maker-

Alistair drew his belt-knife and cut it so that the Blight would not ruin it. Already the land was sick and dying around him, the desolate landscape dotted with bloated corpses. But the darkspawn had gone into hiding for the winter, it seemed.

"This must be stopped," he said quietly. "The land, it's dying, Zev."

"I know," the elf responded hoarsely, ill with a head-cold. He wasn't amused and kept on muttering about warm sunny Antiva.

"I… have an idea." Alistair turned towards the assassin with a wry smile.

"Only the one? No wonder Mara must think for you."

"Hahaha. Very funny. But… I've been thinking… we need the Dalish, right?"

"To be technical, it is the Wardens who need the Dalish."

"True. But according to my templar studies and what Bryland told me, the Dalish elves have… nature magic. They have an affinity for primal sorcery. I was thinking it couldn't hurt to try and see them."

"And what if they shoot you on sight?"

Alistair smiled wryly. "Mara becomes Queen, like she should be, and she doesn't have to deal with a pesky husband."

"She loves you, Ellath'len."

"I know. I love her too. But she's never had her freedom…" Alistair sighed, shaking his head. "But I need to try the Dalish. I… intend to offer them the Hinterlands because with their earth magic, they'll be able to heal the land there."

Zevran raised an eyebrow. "I hope you have your royal shield."

"I have Cailan's. It will have to do." Alistair tucked the rose in his doublet; it would be a gift to Mara when he saw her next.

"I am… half-Dalish. I will see if it wins us any tolerance."

"Wonderful," Alistair said with a smile. "So let's get to it."


	11. Chapter 11

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Blame galadriella for this plot twist. In the game, Bann Franderal's technically on Loghain's side; he strikes me as a man who'll try to back a winner. So that's how he's being portrayed – that and a bit less of a dick. Cruel Banns don't last long in Ferelden. :P

…

**Chapter 11**

Landsmeet Chamber, Royal Palace, Denerim, 26th Verimensis (Morning)

"Mara Theirin, you are under arrest for murder."

Anora made the announcement with suitable gravity while trying to conceal her uttermost inner glee. Nate Howe's support had failed to outweigh his blatant infatuation with the little bitch before her, an infatuation which had eventually cost him his life, and now his demise granted an excuse to collar and muzzle this troublemaking little tart for good. Once she'd whelped, Anora would be able to swallow her pride and add the Theirin heir to the collection of children she was already raising and finally make certain Ferelden would be in good hands once she was dead. Then Mara could hang like she should have a long time ago.

The Runaway Wife heaved a sigh and turned away from her conversation with Bann Franderal of West Hill, red-rimmed eyes and third lavender mourning stripe added to her Antivan ring-shawl indicating she was already aware of Howe's demise – and a sign of her guilt. "Oh, _si,_ I am. I was climbing over the rooftops, pregnant and recovering from sickness as I am, all for the purposes of killing the father of my twin _bambini_ and leaving his corpse in Bann Franderal's wife's rose garden whilst laying the blame on an Orlesian bard masquerading as an Antivan lady's maid," she responded sarcastically.

Up close, the girl looked much healthier than she had a few days ago; Anora swallowed a curse as she realised that the weak, wavering waif had only been an act. Damn her eyes, was the Queen the only person who saw through the big blue eyes and lilting accent to the black, black heart within?

"You probably had one of your Crow friends do it," Anora pointed out.

"Actually, with Zevran's absence from the city, I only have one Crow friend – and my foster brother has far more tact and style than to arrange such a sloppy death," Mara countered coldly. "Now, unless you wish to make more baseless accusations, I have to find the words to tell my children their father's dead." She turned away.

_That… little… bitch!_ Anora allowed herself a grim smile as she said, "With Nate's death, you lose access to those children. Access you should never have had. He loved you, Mara Theirin, and you played him like the bard you are until you had no more need of him – and then you had him killed."

She had the pleasure of seeing Mara's back stiffen. _I have you now, you little whore-_

Anora never actually recalled the moment Mara spun back around, quick as a striking adder, and slapped her face twice. All she remembered was standing up one moment, then seeing stars the next as her right and left cheeks throbbed with heat that was swiftly blooming into pain. Somehow she'd wound up sprawled on the floor.

"I have had my mother and my childhood nurse murdered in these past few weeks; my husband is recovering from an injury; and I am endangering my life by bearing the Theirin heir within barely a year of my first birthing," Mara said with deadly softness. "This is all on top of being left to die at Ostagar, fighting undead at Highever and trying to organise something which will give the people of Denerim something else than the war to think about. And let us mention Nate deceiving me during the first month of my marriage, your persistent harrying of me from Court to Chantry, your pet Hound's kidnapping of the heirs of the Bannorn, including my children, and the murder of any mother who resisted, and your father's paranoia leading to the execution of many innocent people while somehow missing the one bard actively working against Ferelden!"

The woman some were calling the Laurel Queen took a deep breath before continuing. "Nathanial Howe is now answering to the Maker for his sins. I am not ashamed to admit that I mourn the kind, considerate man, the good husband and father, and the loyal Hound he could have been if not for the actions of his father and others. But I swear upon the honour of the Couslands, by my very soul, that I did not countenance or perform the deliberate murder of Nathanial Howe!"

Bann Franderal placed a gentle hand on Mara's shoulder as her voice nearly rose to a shriek. "Lass, calm down. Anora's grasping at straws," he soothed. "My guess, as I was saying to you, is that some bardic rival of this Marjolaine took advantage of Nate's presence on my roof and framed her for his death."

Mara practically panted as Anora managed to get to her feet, raising a shaking finger at the little bitch. "Guards, arrest this woman! She has assaulted a member of the royal family!"

"Beggin' yer pardon, Majesty, but that girl's also part of the royal family," one of the guards replied. "It'd be… kinda awkward."

"I don't fucking care!" Anora snarled. "Am I the only one who can see how dangerous that little bitch is?"

"Maybe she is, maybe she isn't, but she's not the one currently frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog," Franderal observed blandly. "I think the death of your betrothed has made you overwrought, Your Highness. Perhaps you should retire for a few days."

"Agreed," said the guard who'd disagreed with Anora earlier. "Come along, Your Majesty. We'll have your maid give a nice posset…"

Completely stunned at Franderal's betrayal and Mara's ability to convince anyone of anything, Anora let herself be led away. A few days of rest would be good; she could make her own plans for Wintersend.

Taliesen would be very busy over the next few days…

…

Rowan's Wing, Royal Palace, 26th Verimensis (Noon)

"_Merda."_

Mara looked at the earring she'd lost during the ruckus in Bann Franderal's garden and then looked up at the man who'd returned it to her. "What do you want?" she asked bluntly.

The Bann smiled wryly as Teagan sighed. "I want that Val Royeaux Azur rose replaced to begin with, but that won't likely happen until the Blight's done."

"You may be surprised," Mara replied. "I can give you cuttings from the rose garden in Castle Cousland come spring."

"Well, there's a start," Franderal approved. He then leaned back in his seat and looked at the plates of dried fruit, bread, cheese and smoked meat arrayed on the oak sideboard for lunch. "Dried apples, black bread and smoked ham? Anora's been feasting on jellies, wheat bread and roast beef, though I'll grant you your cheese and wine selection are better than hers."

"Highever has plenty of cheese to spare and I know a merchant with a surplus of spiced wine," Mara admitted quietly. "But… I cannot indulge myself overmuch when there are children in my bannorn starving. If I were not eating for two, I'd not even be having the smoked meat."

"Girl, if you're playing the Game, you're playing one so deep they should just send you a chess piece and call you a Gamesmistress," Franderal observed, shaking his head slightly. "If you're doing this out of the goodness of your heart, they might as well Anoint you now like Good Queen Rowan."

"I am no saint," Mara replied with a wry quirk of the lips. Franderal was a schemer, typical of the Bannorn Lords, but he was also a reasonably decent and honest man. His bannorn prospered enough for him to live in luxury, which indicated that he treated it well… Because otherwise in the tumultuous Bannorn, his head would be hoisted on a pike by his own freeholders.

"Thank the Maker. Saints piss me off." Franderal drank deep of Cesar's good spiced wine. "I supported you today because you got your hands dirty, girl. I'm pretty certain that what happened was an accident and you were going for the Orlesian… But too many people play the Game through proxies and while I'm sure you do that when you must, you decided that since this woman needed to die, you'd kill her yourself. I admire that."

"But you didn't support me out of pure admiration, grateful though I am for it," Mara said with a sad, wry quirk of her lips. She wondered if Franderal knew there were herbs in that wine that encouraged a person to relax and be honest.

"No. My support first went to Loghain because he's the Hero of River Dane and Anora, for all her faults, is a competent administrator. I thought with Howe on their side they could at least steer Ferelden through this Blight." Franderal sighed. "But I was wrong. Anora's a stupid petty bitch and she'll burn Ferelden in her pursuit of stupid little feuds. If I had my druthers, I'd be rid of that idiot Chantry Boy you're married to as well and make you Queen, then see you wed one of my boys as Prince-Consort. Any woman who can go through what you've been through over the past two and a half years and still keep on going, thinking of the nation, would have my vote."

Mara bowed her head as Teagan raised an eyebrow. "Thank you for the praise. But Alistairio is no fool; he knows when to stand back and let me handle things. He trusts me, pregnant as I am, to keep the Dowager Queen from totally ruining Ferelden in his absence… He also reminds me that it is not all about the Game. There is as much pragmatism as affection in this marriage of mine."

"Brains _and_ brawn, eh?" Franderal chuckled. "I think you might be coddling the elves a bit too much, but I guess change comes when it's least wanted but usually when it's for the best."

"Alistairio is proud of his elven blood," Mara pointed out. "And they are Fereldan too."

"Good point. I suppose the Alienage elders will be Banns in time." Franderal chuckled dryly. "Knowing the Theirins, he'll probably give the Hinterlands to the Dalish, freedom to the mages-"

"The Grey Wardens beat him to that," Mara interrupted.

"…I'd forgotten that. I'll give your ex-lover points for sheer balls. Duncan chose well in him." The Bann of West Hill looked at her sharply. "…You do know about those papers, right? The ones you stole for Daveth?"

"…I never knew what was in them," Mara said slowly.

"I do, because my people waylaid the courier at Rendon Howe's command. They were Grey Warden papers. Turns out Duncan played a Game of his own to set Daveth up in a position to conscript him."

Mara's response was long, alliterative, and descriptive of the late Warden-Commander's sexual, hygienic and dietary preferences in obscene detail. Through it all, Teagan shook his head and Franderal grinned broadly.

"Reminds of the time I fought with your mother during the Rebellion," he said when she finally fell silent. "Beautiful, elegant woman… with a mouth like a gutter whore when she was pissed off. I cursed the day Bryce won her before I could."

"Err… Thank you. But you have not told me what you want."

"Beyond the roses? Nothing but the chance to meet you privately and see what measure of woman you are," Franderal replied. "Now I have."

"And…?" It was Teagan who spoke.

"Highever will have my allegiance. I don't trust this bastard Theirin still but I'll trust the Teyrna's judgment." Franderal rose to his feet but waved at Mara to stay seated when she tried to do the same. "I trust, however, you'll remember my deeds and words?"

"I will promise nothing until Alistairio is King," she replied. "But I will remember so long as you treat your people well."

"That's fine by me," Franderal said with a slight bow. "Now… to try and see how much damage Anora has done. Good day, Your Highness."

He exited the dining room, leaving Mara and Teagan looking at each other in mild astonishment.

"Can we trust him?" she asked, trusting in his greater knowledge of the Bannorn.

"Franderal's a schemer… but he always does right by his bannorn," Teagan answered, rubbing his goateed chin thoughtfully. "So… unless Alistair does something utterly catastrophic, yes."

Mara looked out the window into Rowan's winter-bare garden sombrely. "Then we have won a victory. But it is a bitter one."

"…You cared for him."

"For the month he was good to me, _si_. If I had known his true identity then, we could have been married honestly and done great things for Amaranthine. He is the father of _miei bambini_ and no one can take that from me or him. So I regret what has happened."

She saw Teagan's troubled expression. "Does Alistair…?"

"I have been honest with him in this. He doesn't understand… but he has ever only loved once with an undivided heart."

"I know some pragmatism played a part in your decision to accept his courtship, Mara – you will always be a political animal to some extent – but what made you agree to marry him? You could have very easily found a way to dissuade his interest without insulting him."

"I'm not _that_ good, Teagan." Mara continued to stare out the window. "Of all the people in my life, outside of my _famiglia_ back in Antiva, he has been the only one to show me kindness for kindness' sake. He didn't need to bring Cu to me; he has always taken my being _dweomer_ into account when he deals with me. He even was kind to me when it was stupid to do so."

She sighed. "Nate would have accepted and perhaps encouraged the worst in me, to be another Catina or Marjolaine. Alistairio and _miei bambini_ give me a reason to play the Game for more than myself because they think I am a good woman."

"There is no 'think' about it, Princess Mara," Teagan finally said softly. "You _are_ a good woman. I have, forgive me, often questioned Alistair's wisdom in choosing you as his bride and queen. I will do so no more. My honour and sword-arm are yours, Your Highness."

Then he bowed deeply to Mara. She inclined her head… and then groped around for a bucket as the tension of the past two days combined with a bout of morning sickness (which had been suppressed by her tisane) to trigger an attack of vomiting. All over his boots. It was almost like the Maker had decided to make it a running gag that during a stressful time, she'd puke on poor Teagan's boots.

"I… oh…" She wiped her mouth weakly, trying to apologise.

Much to her surprise, Teagan threw his head back and roared with laughter. "I figured we were due for one of those!" he laughed. "Ah, Maker, I feel relieved it happened."

"Why?" Mara asked after managing to swallow a small mouthful of wine to get the taste out of her mouth.

"Don't you know? In Rainesferre, it's considered good luck for a pregnant woman to puke on your boots." The Arl of Redcliffe grinned at her dumbfounded expression. "If it's the Queen… Well, I know we're going to win."

"I hope you're right," Mara said in between helpless, slightly hysterical giggles. "I really do."


	12. Chapter 12

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! This will be the last pre-Wintersend chapter. ;) I'm actually going to avoid the blood magic angle with Merrill, because it was done so very stupidly in DA2. I'm sorry if this offends some purists, but it doesn't fit my story.

…

**Chapter 12**

Denerim Marketplace, 29th Verimensis 9:31 (Morning)

Preparations were underway for the Wintersend Festival, one which would go down in Fereldan legend.

"The Grand Cleric's having hysterics over a Tevinter elf and a Dalish Keeper being part of the City Watch," Olin Brosca told Captain Kylon as they oversaw the erection of a stage in the middle of the Marketplace. For a man who'd spent last night blindingly drunk on reception of the news his daughter was dead, he was remarkably clear-eyed and focused. Kylon respected that about his Sergeant.

With the death of Nate Howe, the détente between the Bitch and Laurel Queens had devolved into open warfare in the Court. As Arlessa of Denerim, Mara had given Kylon authority to get Yarin out of Fort Drakon and to arrest the egregious troublemakers amongst Anora's supporters. It had been a privilege and a pleasure to follow the girl's orders…

Yarin would never serve in the field again. Her knees had been broken and feet crushed; she would need a wheeled chair for the rest of her life. But that wicked wit and keen eye for trouble remained – so she was given Kylon's paperwork to keep her occupied while the healer Wynne was treating her. In another time, Kylon would have been disturbed by Yarin's glee on discovering Nate Howe's death… But well, after what she'd been through, he totally agreed.

Wintersend would be chaotic; Mara had told him that she wanted attention focused on the marketplace. Both she and Anora would be presiding over the Festival; Kylon privately wished that the main entertainment would be Anora's execution. But that would need to wait until after the Landsmeet.

"I'm as devout a man as any reasonable person, but if elves being Watchmen is the main thing that woman's worried about, she has too much time on her hands," Kylon observed.

"Your Chantry needs to go," Olin pointed out flatly.

"I wouldn't go that far," Kylon responded. "Look, we have enough on our plate to not worry about international politics. That's what kings and queens are for, anyway."

"And I thought it was to be hat racks for crowns," Olin muttered.

Kylon allowed himself a smirk. "Do you really see our boy and his girl being that?"

"Not really… You know, if that girl _didn't_ have a hand in Howe's death, then I'm an elf."

"Don't tell Merrill that. She might think you are."

"Think you're what?" piped up the elf behind them. "An elf? No offence, Olin, but you're much too short and fat to be one of the elvhen."

"I'll grant you 'stout' but I'm not 'fat'," growled Olin.

"Is something going on?" the Keeper asked, looking at the preparations for the festival.

"Princess Mara's throwing a party for the people of Denerim in two days' time," Kylon explained. "To take their minds off everything that's happened."

Merrill nodded wisely. With her it was hard to tell if it was actually wisdom or an act, she was so… childlike. "That's very nice of her. I've never met a Princess. Can I meet her?"

"I have never met a Dalish Keeper, so it would be my pleasure to meet you," Mara said softly before Kylon could reply.

The Captain swallowed several choice words as he looked down at the tiny girl, accompanied by that big seven-foot knight of hers. "How the _hell_ do you do that?" he demanded.

"It is no great hardship to blend into a crowd," the Princess replied with a subtle shrug beneath her fine black shawl, trimmed with three lavender bands. It was a good thing that her pale complexion and long white-gold hair suited black…

"Is it magic?" Merrill asked curiously as Senior Enchanter Wynne joined the group.

"It is the magic of training," Mara told the elven girl quietly. "I was taught to only make noise to please a man, but otherwise be quiet."

"I see," Merrill said, though Kylon suspected she didn't. "I didn't know shemlen could have vallaslin!" The elf reached out to trace the swirling tattoo around Mara's right eye.

"It is not your blood-writing, but it was a gift," the Princess explained.

"From the blood of Asha'bellanar," Merrill whispered, fingers drifting across the minor facial scarring Mara had from some previous battle.

"I know a Witch of the Wilds," Mara admitted. "Though I only met Flemeth once."

Merrill's green eyes lost their dreaminess and focused on Mara's gently rounded womb. "You carry a babe with elvhen blood."

"…Their father's name is Alistairio, called Ellath'len by the city elves," Mara confirmed softly, blue eyes focused on the elf.

"Her. It's a she," Merrill told her with a smile.

"Thank you. That will make preparing her nursery easier," Mara replied with a wry smile.

"Oh, _ma nuvenin_," Merrill said cheerfully. "It's the least I can do for Ellath'len."

Mara's eyes narrowed. "Captain, may I borrow Merrill for the afternoon? I have heard what the _elvhen'suledin_ have said about Ellath'len… but I am interested in what, if anything, the Dalish have to say. Seeing as I am married to him."

Kylon nodded. "If she's fine with it, be my guest. I assume she's going to the Palace?"

"The Redcliffe estate. It's closer and Anora has no spies there." The Princess made a face. "I cannot wait until Cloudreach to be done with this, one way or the other."

"Don't worry, Princess. Come Cloudreach we'll be able to properly turn our attention to the Blight," Kylon assured her.

"May it be so," she murmured. "May it be so."

…

The Arl of Redcliffe's Estate, 29th Verimensis (Afternoon)

Merrill left with a spring in her step and Mara sank back into her chair, staring broodingly into the fire.

So much relied on Alistair and the babe in her womb. The hopes of an entire race. The hopes of the kingdom, perhaps even the land itself.

What was the Game of Princes in the face of that?

_The only way I can win,_ she thought grimly. She knew that there were those who would support Alistair if he were unwed, even as Franderal and a vocal few, mostly from Highever, claimed _she_ ought to be Queen in her own right. And some diehard Mac Tir supporters would back Anora and Loghain until the end.

Her hands – her very soul – were stained with blood. The deaths of her mother, father-in-law, husband, the father of her children, and so many others could be attributed to her actions. No matter what Wynne and Shianni told her, the basic responsibility lay with Mara. _She'd_ chosen to steal papers and run away. _She'd_ chosen to participate in the Game. _She'd_… allowed misguided affection for the only man to ever treat her kindly to bind Alistair's fate to her own.

She would have to play to win because Alistair's life depended on it. But once he was King and her babe delivered, she was… superfluous. The best she could do for Ferelden was to die either in childbirth or during the Blight and become a footnote in the legend of Ellath'len. If Alistair ever needed her, that time would be past once the Landsmeet was over…

"Maker, let me live long enough to see him crowned and the child delivered, no more," she prayed softly. "I will offer my life for the land if need be. But let him and the child live. Let someone think of me other than the woman who caused hundreds of deaths because of her stupidity. May it be so."

She then rose to her feet and called for Carver. She had to return to the lair of her greatest enemy.

…

Rowan's Wing, The Royal Palace, 29th Verimensis (Night)

Mara had sunk back into her black melancholy.

Claudio had seen her descend into a deathly depression many times during her fosterage with the Valisti and della Ferrana. She was quick to blame herself for everything that went wrong, rightly or wrongly, and often felt the world would be better off without her.

How much heartbreak must she endure before she gave up for good? Claudio feared that day was rapidly approaching. He feared she would not be able to fight to win this Landsmeet.

From what Teagan had said, Alistairio was able to combat these dark moods of hers, but he was far away and injured. If he died, Mara would live only long enough to bear the child and then she would die – either through heartbreak or her own hand.

Anora was her chief tormenter. Sofia della Ferrana had charged him with keeping his little sister alive, no matter the cost; let Ferelden burn if a Valisti woman survived.

Claudio clenched his right hand into a fist. Perhaps it was time to enact some of his own plans and the Landsmeet be damned. If Ferelden was actually stupid enough to choose anyone other than the rightful prince as ruler, then they deserved to perish in the Blight.

…

The Gnawed Noble Tavern, 29th Verimensis (Night)

Delilah Howe stared into her wine broodingly, ruing the day Mara Cousland had ever darkened the doorstep of Vigil's Keep.

Even though she was mostly reacting to or caught up in affairs beyond her control, the Runaway Wife left a trail of corpses and shattered lives in her wake. She was cursed – Delilah couldn't call her evil – and managed to ruin everyone who encountered her.

So much could have been avoided if she'd just married Nate. So many people would still be alive…

Delilah was now Arlessa of Amaranthine. She had a duty to her Arling to do the right thing by it… To do the right thing by Ferelden, doing whatever was necessary, as was the Howe way.

Until the Theirin child was born, Mara was off-limits. But she trusted Delilah, thought her no threat. And there were many ways to make certain that the babe would be whole but Mara… not.

Delilah didn't want Mara dead. She just didn't want her becoming Queen. One cold-eyed bitch on the Lesser Mabari Throne was enough, thank you very much.

Alistair had to become King. That was obvious. But he needed someone other than the ill-fated Mara as his Queen…

Delilah loved Albert. She really did. But sometimes her heart had to be sacrificed for the good of Ferelden.

Setting her wine aside, she pulled out a sheet of parchment, a quill and some ink. It was time to use some of her father's old contacts.

…

The Brecilian Passage, 30th Verimensis (Morning)

"You will come no further, shemlen and elvhen'alas! Your kind is not welcome amongst the Dalish."

Zevran lowered his fur-lined hood as Alistair did the same, smiling sharply at the green-armoured sentry who barred their path through the forest. "My name is Zevran Arainai, called Mi'din by the _elvhen'suledin_. I am the son of Vhenan'sulahn of Clan Jassadahl. I am a Grandmaster of the Antivan Crows. I am also hearthman to my companion, Prince Alistair Ellath'len FitzMaric Theirin. I carry a token from Merrill, First to Keeper Marethari of Clan Sabrae. By these things I would have an audience with your Keeper."

The sentry's eyes narrowed as Alistair wisely remained silent for the nonce. "You could be lying, flat-ear."

"But he is not," a woman's voice said as the interwoven branches of the trees lining the path opened to reveal a slim, white-haired Dalish woman in the feather-adorned, fur-trimmed green robes of a Keeper and the golden vallaslin of one sworn to Sylaise. A strange Creator for a Keeper to be vowed to; most were called by Dirthamen or Mythal, sometimes Elgar'nan or June, and even less by Falon'Din. Sylaise's mark on a Keeper was rarer than hen's teeth.

"Keeper Marethari-!"

"Stand down, Fenaral. Ellath'len has come as was promised, as he was called. The least we can do is share the warmth of our campfires."

_"Ma nuvenin,"_ the warrior said shortly as he stepped aside to allow Alistair and Zevran to follow the elder down the path she had opened.

"Come. It is good you are here. We have waited far too long for the Dales and you have waited to fight the Blight for far too long."

Zevran exchanged looks with Alistair as they followed the Keeper. How did Marethari already know their purpose…?

He didn't know how she knew, but he knew trouble when it was about to happen. He just hoped he and Alistair weren't walking into something which would get them in too much difficulty…


	13. Chapter 13

Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing! I'm going to be altering canon somewhat and making Velanna a full Keeper. Because why should Zathrian be the only nutjob amongst the Dalish?

It's also my head-canon that templars practice synaesthesia (the ability to perceive certain sensory experiences through other senses, like hearing taste or seeing music) in preparation for learning to counter magic.

…

**Chapter 13**

Dalish Camp, 29th Verimensis 9:31 (Night)

No less than three clans had gathered in the Brecilian Forest to await Alistair's arrival. He didn't know whether to feel honoured or worried… He _did_ know to expect a) trouble and b) them to demand something of him in return for their help in the Blight.

He wished Mara was here. Her encyclopaedic knowledge of Thedas would surely include anything known on the wandering elvish clans. But she was not and he'd have to be able to handle this on his own… by being himself. Maker help them all.

"So once again a human king comes a-begging for the Dalish's aid," drawled a tanned blonde woman whose skin flaked dust and stone chips, sheathed as she was in a spell Alistair had seen Wynne use for physical protection. "I say we turn him away and leave Ferelden to its fate."

Alistair had expected guarded politeness and wariness, not outright hostility. He bared his teeth in something that wasn't a grin and looked the Keeper directly in the eye. "And so the Dales said during the Second Blight and so they fell to those who had fought the darkspawn and survived. Isolation didn't save you then – and it won't save you now."

Viridian energy suffused the mage's body as her hand reached for her staff in outrage. "You shems broke Andraste's promise to us!"

"It wasn't me and probably wasn't even my Alamarri ancestors," Alistair responded quietly but clearly, using every inch of discipline instilled during templar training not to unleash a Cleansing Strike on the woman. "I'm not saying we humans are entirely free of blame… But I would wager the refusal of the Dales to fight Zazikel played a large part in the troubles that followed."

"That is a… not unreasonable assumption to make," Marethari conceded softly. "And Velanna, Ellath'len is _seth'lin'len._ Respect his ancestry and name if you cannot respect him."

The younger Keeper released her grip on the energies of the Fade, grumbling at the implied rebuke. The last Keeper, a bald man with simple twining tattoos on his forehead and nose, looked keenly at Alistair.

"We were expecting the Grey Wardens. Have they all perished then?"

"Three survived and they've recruited a few more. The last I heard they were in Orzammar trying to resolve the kingship crisis there," Alistair replied honestly. "The act of treachery which slaughtered most of them has forced me to fight a civil war until the Landsmeet can convene to choose a new king. I have wanted to speak to the Dalish, so I thought at least I could warn you of the Blight and discuss the future of Ferelden with you."

"Why should we care about a shem kingdom?" the male Keeper asked curtly in response.

"Because I would offer the Dalish the Hinterlands of Ferelden, a place which few humans see the value in but seems suited to your nomadic ways, as a homeland," Alistair answered promptly. "All I ask in return is that you do not forsake the world and aid Ferelden in times of need."

"There is truth written in his face, Zathrian; he makes this offer in earnest," Marethari observed. "Do not dismiss him."

Zathrian inclined his head, lips pursed. "We are… surprised… that you would treat honestly and equally with us," the Keeper finally said. "But the Hinterlands hold not the space for us all and even in times past the _elvhen_ did not live there. There is nothing for us in that place."

Alistair met the elder's eyes, troubled by the dark flavour to Zathrian's magic. Did the other two Keepers know he was a blood mage? "It's the Dales or nothing, isn't it?"

"Yes. Our prophecies speak of _Vhen'alas_, Our Land. Given to us by a _seth'lin'len_ king; a land born again in the Dales, where Dalish and flat-ear and even half-elf may come to regain our culture." Marethari's golden eyes were sombre as she looked at Alistair. "This is our price."

_"There will come a time when a necessary ally will extract blood to seal an agreement," _Mara had once told him. _"Do not hesitate to make them bleed as well."_

"You want me to invade Orlais, a land which has previously conquered us and is militarily superior to Ferelden even at its best," the Bastard Prince said slowly.

"The Dalish would lend their bows to such an action," Marethari assured him.

"It would take nothing less than an army of Dalish archers to fight for me until both this civil war and Blight are over for me to agree to such a demand," Alistair responded flatly. "If Ferelden must bleed… so should the Dalish."

"Why should we fight your war? You owe us! We owe you nothing!" Velanna hissed in rage.

Zathrian's eyes glittered. "How like a shem. Try to get the Dalish to do his dirty work. Just like the flat-ear assassin who serves you."

Alistair smiled savagely. "Insult my hearthman one more time, _blood mage_, and I will make certain my final act in this life is to strike you down."

"Enough!" Marethari placed herself between the other Keepers and the Prince. "Velanna, Zathrian, you forget yourselves! Ellath'len, I would not have you throw baseless-"

"I was trained as a templar, Keeper Marethari;I can… Taste? Hear? Smell? It's hard to explain how I can sense different kinds of magic. But I swear by the land that I do not lie about Zathrian."

The elder female Keeper looked troubled, glancing at Zathrian. "Is this… true?"

"You'd take the words of a shem over a Keeper?" Zathrian demanded in outrage.

"I'd at least give the word of a land-bound King who has sworn by his land the benefit of the doubt," Marethari responded slowly. "So I will repeat it one more time: _Is. It. True?_"

"It was necessary," the male Keeper replied in a tight, angry voice. "I had to avenge my children somehow."

_"And how long must vengeance continue, Zathrian? Until each and every one of the Dalish are infected as werewolves?"_ asked an unearthly echoing woman's voice… just before the world erupted into a welter of blood and gore and teeth and fur and claws.

Alistair and Zevran were forced back to back as werewolves tore through the Dalish like… a pack of wolves. They fought, striking out indiscriminately at anything in their way, until the sounds of slaughter were replaced with the moans and sobbing of the wounded and dying.

Within the space of ten minutes, four hundred Dalish had been reduced to less than half. Some of them bore sword or dagger wounds, injured in the confusion as their brethren had struck out as randomly as Alistair and Zevran… But some bore bite marks – and those Zevran coldly and methodically killed by slitting their throats before the Dalish could gather themselves enough to protest.

"By the Creators," Marethari wept as she cradled the body of a little girl, "What did you do, Zathrian?"

"I took a desire demon, bound it to the body of a great white wolf, and set it on the bastards who murdered my son and raped my daughter," the male Keeper immediately replied. "I… can reverse it."

"The werewolves of the Brecilian Forest…" Velanna breathed, customary anger lost in the shock of the attack.

"If we can get the heart of Witherfang, the demon-wolf, I can end the spell and cure anyone else who's been bitten," Zathrian continued.

"Or I could simply slit your throat and save ourselves the trouble," Zevran suggested coldly. "I know more about the cruelties of shemlen than you, but even I would settle for a quick, clean death over the lingering agony you have inflicted."

Zathrian's smile was cold. "I worked the spell in such a way that even should I die, it will continue. It will take nothing less than the Heart of Witherfang to end it permanently."

Alistair exchanged looks with Zevran. Intervening in this would be no crazier than going in search of the Urn of Sacred Ashes… Maker willing Bryce Cousland would be revived soon. He was needed badly. "Velanna, Faneral, with us," the Prince commanded. "Zathrian, give us a general location of the lair. Between her Keeper magic, Zev's scouting skills, and my templar skills, we ought to be able to deal with this demon-wolf."

"I… Very well," Zathrian agreed as Velanna exploded.

"I'll not work with a shemlen-!"

"Velanna, you will accompany him or be stripped of your rank and made not First again but Second!" Marethari snarled, golden eyes blazing with fury. "We have dead da'lens here and you would cling to your pride!"

The elder Keeper turned to Alistair, tears in her eyes. "If you end this, Ellath'len, we… we will do what is necessary. Having a homeland is pointless if there are no Dalish alive to claim it."

Alistair nodded. "I'll… need some supplies."

"I can arrange anything you need," an older man with a long grey ponytail assured the Prince. "I am Master Ilen."

_"Ma serannas,"_ Alistair responded quietly, shaking the old man's hand.

"Manners from a shem!" Ilen exclaimed. "I suspect at this rate, I'll hear one singing _In Uthenera._"

"Umm… I've sung that at Alienage funerals and it's my wife's favourite dirge," Alistair admitted, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, feeling surprisingly honoured by the implicit approval in Ilen's comments. "She sang it at Ostagar for… what was his name?"

"Theron Mahariel," Zevran supplied softly. "Ser Jory still has his amulet, to return to the People."

"Theron is dead?" Marethari whispered. "Oh, Creators… Merrill will be heartbroken."

_"Ir abelas,"_ Zevran told her. "I am sorry you found out this way."

_"Ma serannas,"_ Marethari said, tears trickling from her cheeks. "Was he… killed?"

"I think it was… whatever Wardens do… to make themselves Wardens," Zevran said as Alistair helped himself to the scattered but still edible food and put it into a sack. "They had to burn his body."

"He had the taint from a cursed mirror," Marethari explained. "Duncan said he had a cure…" The Keeper sighed. "I had to send Merrill away before she became obsessed with that damned thing."

"It speaks well of your wife that she sang for him," Ilen told Alistair as he handed over four camping packs. "And even better that she knew the right song, if not the entire ceremony."

"Damn… Poor Theron. He and Tamlen always knew how to find trouble," Faneral sighed. "How many times did Ashalle say it would be the death of them? I guess she was right."

"We'd better go," Alistair said grimly as dawn lightened the sky. "We've got a long way to go and a hard fight ahead of us."

…

Elven Ruins, 30th Verimensis (Noon)

"There is no fucking way I am going to cheerfully slaughter a group of relatively innocent people!"

As frustratingly noble as he could be, there were times when Alistairio made Zevran very proud of his Chantry Boy. Refusing to kiss the Dalish's collective arse was one of them and now refusing to just go off and kill Swiftrunner and his people now they knew the full extent of Zathrian's stupidity was another. Now killing the Keeper – and maybe Velanna into the bargain – was a different matter. If someone took a contract out on them, he'd do it for free.

Faneral looked awkwardly at the ground as the werewolves politely gathered at one end of the ruined hall to give them some privacy. Not that it really worked because both Alistair and Velanna were shouting at each other loud enough to be heard in Denerim.

Zevran sidled up to the Dalish warrior, pulling out a flask of Antivan brandy Mara had given him. "Drink?"

"Why not?" Faneral asked dryly. He took a swig and handed it back.

Faneral licked his lips free of brandy. "That's… nice."

"Indeed… You seem to be your average Dalish: what do you think of all this… mess?" Bless Mara for giving him passionfruit brandy…

"Honestly? Idiots on both sides." Faneral folded his arms and shook his head at the shrieking Velanna. "But Marethari's right about the prophecy. _Vhen'alas_ will be reborn in the Dales."

"It will have to happen after the civil war and the Blight," Zevran said slowly.

"I know. And as one marked by Elgar'nan, I agree with Ellath'len's price. We're going to have to fight for him if we want him to invade another country."

Zevran chuckled richly. "The response of the Gamesmasters will be… interesting."

"Somehow I don't think you're talking about people who play Hallas and Hounds…"

"I am not. You'll learn who they are soon enough."

Finally Velanna agreed they should at least confront Zathrian about everything. So Zevran stoppered his flask, Faneral picked up his sword and shield, and off they went to have a little chat with the Keeper to see if he could be convinced to somehow release the curse…

It took every iota of Alistair's Theirin charisma to talk Zathrian into joining them. As they returned to the werewolves' lair, Zevran knew this would be… difficult.

And so it was. After ranting and refusing to play nicely as Alistair, Zevran and eventually Faneral stood against him, the Keeper unleashed his nature magic to send sylvans and thorned vines and demons ripping through the ruins. Velanna refused to intervene on either side's behalf, torn between her loyalty to Zathrian… and knowing blood magic was wrong.

But Zathrian was one man, facing a templar and a Crow Grandmaster, and he was eventually worn down. The Keeper cracked open one blackened eye and spat out blood, looking at Alistair. "You… are right. My hatred is like a tree root dug deep within the earth, too hard to move. I have lived past my time. I will… release the spell."

He rose to his feet with Velanna's aid, looking the younger Keeper in the eye. "Do not… follow my example," he whispered before walking to stand in front of the Lady of the Forest, who was touching her friends in farewell.

A heartbeat was all it took for Zathrian to let go and both to die. The werewolves became humans and elves again… albeit with eerie yellow eyes. Some things left their mark, Zevran supposed.

They returned to the Dalish camp where the few bitten people Zevran had missed in his necessary culling were healing up. The three clans were much reduced, rendered to no more than a single clan in number, and already the elders were discussing merging for safety's sake.

Marethari listened to Velanna's account of the events surrounding Zathrian and she sighed. "Blood magic is always a curse," she murmured. "I pray he is with the Creators now."

Then the Keeper looked up at Alistair. "You will have your Dalish army for the Blight… and more. In you we put our trust and faith, Ellath'len. _Do not fail us_."

"I will not," Alistair vowed as he bowed his head. "I will need to leave on the morrow. I am expected in South Reach to prepare for the return to Denerim for the Landsmeet."

"Creators guide you, da'len, for you will surely need it."


	14. Chapter 14

Note: Here it is: the big finale of _Queens and Hounds._ Thanks for sticking with me. Enjoy!

I'm expanding Morrigan's shapeshifting ability to include people for the purposes of the plot. And if anyone is offended by my depiction of Anora… Well, she strikes me as lacking imagination or at least sacrificing it for ruthless practicality.

…

**Chapter 14**

The Royal Palace, Denerim, Wintersend 9:31 (Early Morning)

It was the day of the Wintersend Festival and everyone instinctively knew nothing would be the same tomorrow.

Two women, each attended by a female elf, prepared for their parts. One smoothed Orlesian lilac damask over a girlishly slim waist, cursing the other's fertility whilst the other shrugged into a gown of the same wool used for making Antivan ring-shawls dyed the deepest of black and wondered if her children were alright. Fair hair was coiled into braids on one woman; twined into a loose knot woven with beads of jet for the other. One donned the delicate golden coronet she'd been crowned in, the other a simple black lace veil. Both primped and painted until they were deemed ready for public appearances.

Before the night was through, one would be dead.

In other parts of the castle, two men were making very different preparations. One donned old leather armour; the other a fine damask doublet and breeches. One was alone while the other delivered instructions to a select team of extraordinary individuals assembled for this night. One planned to paint the town red with blood, the other to save the lives of the innocent.

Before the end of the night, one would be dead.

In the city of Denerim, guardsmen patrolled the streets and thieves planned for a celebration of their own. An understanding had been reached that burglaries of certain houses would be overlooked so long as a particular warehouse burned to ash.

In the Gnawed Noble Tavern, four assassins made their own preparations. One mixed poisons while another sharpened his knives; an old man prayed for his soul while another plotted revenge.

The Alienage bedecked their Vhenadahl in bright colours to symbolise the first defeat of Tevinter magisters by elves in millennia. The Keeper and the Warrior were not there as they were needed elsewhere, but everyone else was prepared for a damned good time. In later years they would mark the Firstday of Vhen'alas calendars by its date.

It would be a day of reckoning. A day of redemption. A day of grief. A day of joy. A day of life. A day of death.

In the legends of Ferelden and Vhen'alas, it would be called _Sa'vunin Sulahn_, the Day of Singing, and be a defining moment in Fereldan history up there with the coronation of Calenhad and Maric's victory at the River Dane.

Because on that day, the legend of a Fereldan Queen would be born.

…

Denerim Marketplace (Day)

"Delilah, my sorrow for Nathanial's death. I wish things had worked out differently between us."

The most maddening, saddening thing was that Mara _truly_ was sorry about her brother's demise, the Arlessa of Amaranthine thought as she poured some wine into a silver-and-jet chalice known as the mourning cup. And Delilah had to admit her brother should have had the courage to approach Bryce Cousland to gain Mara's hand. But none of that excused the fact that Mara Deidre Cousland had cursed the Howes by wedding into them. Perhaps her parents had even counted on her having a bad luck name (being born with a dead twin after all) to weaken the Arling of Amaranthine. How else could all of the misfortune which had befallen the Howes be explained?

As was custom, Delilah drank the wine, spiced with bitter herbs to recall the loss of a beloved family member, before giving the remaining half to Mara. It was customary that the mother of the dead person's children drain it to the dregs… In fact, Delilah was counting on it.

It made for a pretty show and the commons lapped it up like a Tevinter arena match, cheering and applauding the two women. Mara drank without flinching, winter-sky eyes watching Delilah with sorrow and regret that twisted the Howe Rose's heart. She didn't hate the Runaway Wife… but this needed to be done for Ferelden's sake.

Finally Mara set aside the cup and bowed her head to Delilah. "Thank you for standing by me," she murmured softly.

If Delilah didn't know better, she'd swear the woman knew she'd been dosed with a slow-acting poison designed to send her into a coma and was intending to twist the knife of guilt already piercing the Arlessa's heart. But there was no way she could know, right?

What mattered was that in a few hours, Mara would be out of the picture, locked into a coma as the healers worked to keep her alive long enough to have the child born safely. If she ever awoke again, she'd be so feeble and frail that she'd be bedridden for the rest of her life.

"You're welcome," Delilah said and turned away before she could betray herself with her expression. What was done was done. Ferelden would be better off for it in the end.

…

Denerim Warehouse District (Day)

Seth 'Slim' Cauldry finished smashing the vials full of blood, wondering why templars would keep a whole host of them when blood magic was forbidden. But after Lady Mara – whom some of the _elvhen'suledin_ were calling Vhenan'Suledin, the Enduring Heart, for her determination – had asked it of him, it was a small act to perform in return for carte blanche to rob Hank Ceorlic blind. And once he was done, someone else would cover the crime for him.

Now done, he exited the warehouse to find the strange golden-eyed woman who'd entered Denerim with Ellath'len and the Wardens waiting. "'Tis done?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah-" Seth had to jump out of the way as the structure suddenly caught alight, the flames tightly controlled and keeping to the warehouse. He should've guessed a mage would be responsible. No one could cover your arse better.

He then took to the Thieves' Road as someone yelled "Fire!" No doubt the mage could take care of herself…

From the corner of his eye he noted a crow flying away, cawing derisively as a bunch of panicky templars came running around the corner. What a useful, useful talent to have… Made him almost wish for magic!

…

Nursery, Royal Palace (Day)

Mara would owe her. There was little Morrigan would not do at the Princess' request, mostly because 'twould seem rude to deny Mara's eminently reasonable requests – and the girl always traded favour for favour – but dealing with ten children ranging from babehood to just adolescence really was asking too much.

Daisy and Torry, the mage children rescued from the Tower, accompanied Morrigan (who had assumed the form of a royal nurse) to the nursery to liberate the children. They were much cheered at the prospect of a safe home in Orzammar… and truth to tell Morrigan was wondering if her path would permit occasionally seeing her fellow mages once things were settled in the dwarven kingdoms. 'Twould only be for the acquisition of practical knowledge, of course…

The lack of imagination displayed by this Anora was truly astonishing: every girl had her hair braided and coiled, the boys had theirs in single plaits or ponytails, and they all wore plain brown dresses or tunics and breeches of fine but drab cloth. 'Twas sickening the way she sought to stamp out individuality – or so it seemed to Morrigan.

"The Queen has ordered the heirs of the Bannorn to be displayed at the Wintersend Festival to assure the populace they are unharmed, whole and being treated well," Morrigan informed the guard, forcing her tongue and mouth to shape the words as Mara had taught her, not the poetic way she preferred.

It appeared that the Princess _could_ speak without that Antivan drawl with the subtle lilt if she had to; but 'twas difficult, she had explained, like speaking in another language. Now that Morrigan was doing it, she well understood and appreciated the sentiment.

"That's the first smart idea Anora's had for a while," observed one of the guards as he went to fetch the children.

"Hey, she's not stupid!" protested the other guard.

"Maybe not but she's forgetting she's not technically Queen anymore. Well, not until the Landsmeet. Flies, honey, vinegar…"

"Alright, maybe you're right." The second guard looked to Morrigan. "Want an escort?"

Morrigan thought of Alfstanna, Bann of Waking Sea, and the elf Fenris in 'borrowed' Royal Guard armour at the gate. "The Queen has informed me that since the children will be at the Festival, you are free to pursue your own entertainments until dawn."

The two men exchanged a grin. "Well, well, well… Join us after you've delivered the brats – I mean, nobles?"

Morrigan would sooner bed down with a dozen dwarves. But instead she smiled sweetly and said, "A most tempting offer. However, I have no rest for I must keep an eye on them…"

"Ah, well, sweetie. Come find us another day." The guards left and Morrigan sighed with relief.

Now to get these children to the Redcliffe estate without getting stopped by suspicious guards… Then she smiled.

"Children, have you ever wished you could fly?"

…

Arl of Redcliffe's Estate (Afternoon)

A scrape of leather against stone was all the warning Teagan had before a crossbow bolt grazed the side of his right temple and buried itself in the wooden armoire he'd been rummaging in.

He'd had wine spilt on his doublet by a clumsy servant and returned home to change it. Now, as he turned to face his would-be assassin, he had to wonder if it was deliberate.

The Crow assassin Taliesen, friend to Zevran Arainai, stood in the doorway to his bedroom and dropped the crossbow. Teagan looked towards his bed where his sword lay and then looked at the Journeyman's position. There was no way in Andraste's name he was going to make it to his weapon before Taliesen drew a knife and attacked him.

The Arl sighed and smiled ruefully. "My mother always said my love of fine fashion would be the death of someone," he observed wryly.

"You know, most men would be shitting themselves now or begging for their lives," Taliesen pointed out as his hand inched towards a dagger stuck in his belt. "But you crack a joke. I've always liked your style, Arl Teagan. Seems a shame to execute one of the few civilised men in Ferelden."

"Thank you, I suppose." Teagan tilted his head curiously. "I don't suppose you'd indulge an old Houndmaster by answering a couple questions for me?"

Taliesen smirked. "That's one of the oldest ones in the book, Arl Teagan."

"Oh, but of course. Still, you're making the assumption I'm a proficient swordsman… When sad to say, I was never better than adequate at the best of times in my youth. And now I'm a little past my prime, so… Indulge me?"

The assassin chuckled. "Anora got me addicted to blue poppy. Snuck it into the wine she gave me on our first meeting. Grows in the Frostbacks; the lyrium beneath the surface does weird things to the flower, makes the juice more addictive and potent. And ordinary poppy doesn't help. I know. I tried."

"I'm sorry," Teagan said sincerely. From the little Zev had said about his friend, Taliesen could have been a good ally for them to have.

"Huh, you really mean it. Bit of a shame you don't know where the blue poppy was because I'd work for you and kill Anora instead," Taliesen replied. "Damned shame Howe died; he was following a lead I'd given him."

"Yes, it is." Teagan watched the assassin come closer, dagger now drawn; its edge shone a sickly red with poison. "I don't suppose you know who the Night Terror is?"

"Geraldo or old Ignacio. Roberto's too… fussy… about his kills and Claudio hasn't the balls." Taliesen shrugged. "Either/or. I really didn't care because it was a couple less kills for me."

"Ah." Teagan sighed. Another lead to pursue. "Well, that's it. You can try to kill me now."

Taliesen smirked. "What makes you think there's a _try_ about it?"

He lunged suddenly, dagger driving towards Teagan's gut in a two-handed upwards thrust. But the Arl of Redcliffe stepped back in perfect time, having seen the assassin's move telegraphed by the flicker of his eyes, and then flung the wadded doublet he still held directly into Taliesen's face. Momentarily blinded, the assassin lost precious time and momentum as Teagan grabbed his extended upper right arm in a wrestler's grip… and dislocated his shoulder with one hard jerk.

Taliesen began to scream as his dagger dropped from nerveless fingers, only to have the breath driven from his lungs as Teagan then viciously kneed him in the gut. Releasing his hold on the dislocated shoulder, Teagan allowed Taliesen to stumble past him so that he would be positioned behind the Antivan-Fereldan mix-blood.

Then he seized Taliesen under the armpits and curled his hands behind the assassin's neck.

"I've never been much of a swordsman. However, I learned to wrestle in the Free Marches. Do you have any last requests or prayers?"

Taliesen chuckled bitterly. "Zev always said my arrogance would be the death of me." He then began to murmur Trials 1:14 in Antivan, a prayer Teagan had heard Mara use several times. _"Se tutti prima di me è ombra, ma il Creatore è la mia guida. Non voglio essere lasciata a vagare per i deriva strade dell'aldilà. Per non ci sono tenebre in luce del costruttore e niente che ha compiuto."_

Once he was finished, Teagan heaved twice and broke his spine completely. Taliesen flailed once and was still; when Teagan saw his expression, the man looked strangely peaceful.

_Maker, forgive me,_ he thought sadly as he called for Ser Perth to find a place to hide the body.

Now he had to return to the festival and act as if nothing occurred. It was days like this he hated the Game of Princes…

…

Denerim Marketplace (Dusk)

Mara had not thought that sitting on a dais, feasting casually with Anora and Delilah, would be so draining. But to act as if nothing was happening when both sides were taking advantage of the Wintersend chaos to advance their own ends was wearying beyond all measure.

If nothing else, the mages would be free if the plume of smoke she'd been from Morrigan's efforts was any indication. She'd not know if the witch had been able to abscond with the heirs of the Bannorn, including her own twins, until she saw Teagan on the morrow. The elves had freed themselves and she'd been able to rescue Yarin from Fort Drakon a few days ago…

Cesar and the other merchants of Denerim had outdone themselves; stews and soups simmered in pots around the marketplace from Chantry to Alienage and back again even as whores and dancers and acrobats plied their trades. But now as the setting sun turned everything a molten amber-gold, Mara rose to her feet to address the crowd.

"I hope that you have enjoyed yourselves this day and managed to set aside your sorrows for a time. But this is not just about gathering to ease our pain… but to remember those who are fighting the darkspawn in the south… and those who have been lost in the struggle."

She looked blindly over the crowd, dazzled by the torches and bonfires. "I will make no promises of swift victory and happy ending. King Cailan made such a promise and in the end it cost him. The Blight will test our strength, our bodies, our hearts and even our very souls before the end… But we will prevail. For so long as a single heart beats, a single candle burns, a single person endures, the archdemon has not won."

If only she could apply her words to herself, for all her burdens seemed unutterably heavy. All she wanted to do was sleep… "I have tasted of despair in the past two years. But a song taught to me by an Orlesian – yes, you may jest, but she taught me the lament I sang at Ostagar – has given me strength. It is simply called _Suledin, _which is the elven word for endurance."

She then opened her mouth to sing:

"_Melava inan enansal_

_ir su araval tu elvaral_

_u na emma abelas_

_in elgar sa vir mana_

_in tu setheneran din emma na._

_Lath sulevin_

_lath araval ena_

_arla ven tu vir mahvir_

_melana 'nehn_

_enasal ir sa lethalin."_

If there was one thing Mara could say about herself, it was that she could sing. Her contralto voice soared over the silenced marketplace, carrying with it all of the hope and will to endure she hoped to instil in the people of Denerim, if not herself. It took every trick Leliana, Sofia and Rosa had ever taught her…

…But it was enough. Even though she could not read crowds in the same way as a non-_dweomer_ person, she knew when she had them. For a bard, it was a heady feeling…

…But the song wearied her. Once she'd done singing, she fell to her knees, strength running from her limbs. Wynne cursed in a most unladylike manner and came hurrying over as numbness seeped through Mara's body like cold water.

_"Salvare i miei bambini…"_ the Runaway Wife murmured just before she slipped into unconsciousness.

…

The Crow Master watched the girl in black crumple to the ground almost dispassionately. So very predictable. Some people just _had_ to act even when it was a bad idea.

But his mission was clear: a woman of the Valistis had been poisoned and it would be his duty to execute the fool responsible. And the perpetrator was obvious, judging by the quietly gleeful expression on Anora's face.

He judged the distance between him and Anora, deciding that he had enough time to sprint through the shocked crowd, jump onto the dais, and plunge a dagger (poisoned, of course) into the Bitch Queen's heart. She may have struck Mara Theirin down, but she'd not profit by the deed.

It would take one dagger. The other would be reserved for himself. Crow poison and soldier's bane was a swift, if moderately painful end. Still better than the canker in his stomach slowly killing him.

He'd come to Ferelden to see what manner of man his best assassin had become since leaving his service. Freed from the constraints of the Crows, he'd proven to be less ruthless than expected, and overly superstitious and loyal.

The Master sighed. At least this would make his best student's life more… interesting.

He started to run, shoving his way through a crowd reacting to the collapse of a girl much beloved by the populace. As if the Maker was answering his prayers, an avenue miraculously opened up, as if even the people knew that he would avenge her. He didn't even need to stab anyone on the way there.

Then he jumped onto the dais, kicking aside the armoured behemoth that had failed to protect Mara and throwing one dagger directly into the chest of Anora Mac Tir-Theirin. The Bitch Queen collapsed, already frothing at the mouth, and he allowed himself to savour the look of incredulity and fear in her sea-blue eyes.

It was the only joy in this cold dark world, to free a person from their shell of flesh and sorrow to return to the Maker and His Light.

Then before Ser Carver could react, the Master slit his own throat. As the darkness gathered at the edges of his vision, he smiled in the knowledge he would soon be free himself.


End file.
